Distractions, Frustrations
by tiromu
Summary: Shaun wondered briefly if this man, this Desmond Miles, had any idea of his apparent value to their cause, wondered whether he really was worth the trouble they had gone through to ensure his safety. ShaunDes. Some strong language. Multi-Chapter.
1. Chapter 1

_A/N: Summary comes from a later chapter (because I couldn't think of one off the top of my head and because I am _lazy_). Starting chapter is quite short, while later chapters get a little longer. My intention is to have a regular update schedule set, perhaps Tuesday/Friday, memory willing, and provided I can maintain a buffer until this thing is finished._

_Best when viewed at ½ width (it makes the story look longer than it is, which is crucial). _

_This is my first fic, and of course, I can only take credit for the words, not for what inspired them, lest Ubisoft should smite me with almighty righteousness and wrathful vengeance._

_Enjoy. (Or don't.)_

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**2007**

Shaun Hastings picked his way through the tangled jumble of cords and components littering the floor, pushing his glasses up us nose unconsciously. In five minutes they will have slipped enough that he will have to push them up again. Rebecca had noticed two years ago that it ran like clockwork, the frames gradually sliding down his nose over the course of those five minutes to perch precariously at the tip, his automatic correction of their progress restarting the process anew. He leaned against the wall once mostly clear of the rubble, crossing his arms over his chest. His brow creased as he mulled over what Rebecca had told him about . . . this. Whatever it was. It didn't really make sense to him; or rather, it did, it made perfect sense, as much as these things _can_ make sense, but it was more interesting to pretend otherwise. At least conversationally.

"Just. Remind me---again---what exactly we're supposed to accomplish with all of this?" British vowels fell from his tongue in thorny tones, echoing in the near-empty room. Sarcasm also made conversations more interesting. He waved a hand over the detritus, doubt written across his features.

"Come on, Shaun, you saw Lucy's report. This thing Abstergo has is dangerous and powerful. Naturally, we have to have one." The dark-haired woman scanned the room from where she knelt on the floor for the next necessary component as she began making adjustments on the blueprints spread out before her. He hummed to himself, a bit disgruntled. Sure, he'd seen the report, seen the plans, heard the theory behind it, but . . . Well.

"Seems a bit far-fetched, doesn't it?" Shaun ignored her sharp look and carried on. "Have they even tested it? We could be wasting our time here."

Rebecca tutted. "Don't tell me you'd rather be out with the other teams, Shaun." She knew full well he wouldn't, but he opened his mouth to argue on principle. She overrode his protests smoothly, not looking up from her work. "Anyway, big history buff like you? I figured you'd be all over this."

"Get back to me if it actually _works_. Then I'll get excited. In the meantime--"

"In the meantime," she interrupted, "you can help me put this thing together. Get me my laptop." Shaun pursed his lips at her command, but knew it was best not to argue. He did owe her his life, after all. Sighing, he deftly maneuvered through the maze once more, temporarily forgotten as Rebecca lost herself in the mess of parts and pieces scattered helter-skelter.

_This had better not be a tremendous waste of time_, he thought, hand on Rebecca's computer. He paused. "Just what is this thing called, anyway?" he asked, breaking her reverie. For all that he'd given the reports a once-over, that one little detail had managed to escape him. She scowled and jerked at the cable between her fingers until it clicked into place before passing a hand across her brow and replying.

"The Animus."


	2. Chapter 2

_A/N: __Bit of personal news: I graduate from university tomorrow, and from the honors college tonight. Hot. Damn._

_Thank you so much for the alerts and reviews; I did not anticipate them. Much love._

_ I feel should mention that the "eventual" part of "Eventual SxD" from the summary requires a bit of emphasis, lest any readers I might have/acquire get their happy little hopes up about fluffy and/or angry romance between the two men. I think perhaps it starts in its barest form at about chapter ten, because along the way I got distracted by just how much I -love- Shaun Hastings. My god, this does drag on. Stick with me, here. I can't promise it's good, but I can hope._

_See you on Tuesday._

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**2009**

Sunlight glinted, distorted through the windows opposite the doorway, casting soft shadows across the polished hardwood floor, dust motes dancing faintly in the dying light of the autumn sunset.

"Well?"

Shaun blinked at the question, swiveling in his chair to give Rebecca an inquisitive glance. Across his computer screen red and blue blips danced in seemingly nonsensical patterns, each maintaining careful distance from the others. Rebecca was leaning back in the folding chair she had set up near the ever-evolving Animus station, propped up on the back legs, a satisfied grin making itself at home on her lips.

"'Well' what, Rebecca?" Shaun snapped tersely; coordinating the movements of the blue blips had his nerves on edge, his ire finding an outlet in the only other person nearby, and she hardly deserved it but really, who else was there? He shrugged to himself.

"Well," she said, drawing out the word, resting the front legs of the chair back on the floor with a faint _thud_ and brushing a strand of her black hair from her eyes, "are you excited yet?"

Shaun turned quickly back to his computer when an urgent beep rang out from the speakers, one of the blips pulsing in time to the alarm. Hastily he sent out a string of commands from his keyboard and the pulsing quieted. He sighed.

"Why should I be excited, exactly?" He didn't turn back--he didn't want to see that _oh-so-smug _grin of victory. Perhaps he should be happier, but at the moment he did not feel _particularly _celebratory.

"You heard Lucy! My baby here is not, in fact, a 'colossal bloody waste of time,'" she said gleefully, imitating Shaun's dour tones. "It _works._" She leaned forward earnestly, staring at the back of Shaun's head, as though attempting to force her own enthusiasm into him.

"I don't sound like that. And I don't think it counts as 'working' when all of their 'subjects' have _died_ while using it," he snapped, rapidly typing out an acknowledgement as a final message came though, all blue blips safe and sound. "How many is that, five?"

She cleared her throat uncomfortably. "Actually, make that seven."

He glared over his shoulder at her. "Not helping your case, Rebecca."

She shrugged, clapped her hands to her knees and pushed herself to her feet, running her hand almost affectionately along the machine that was slowly losing any resemblance to its parent as she made more and more adjustments to the original design.

"They're still working out all the kinks."

"Oh, that's nice. And in the meantime, their 'test subjects' get to make sacrifices for the 'greater good.' _Against. Their. Will._" His voice cracked like a whip, laced with sarcasm. He huffed into the momentary silence following his words, leaning against his cluttered desk and propping his head up in his palm, suddenly despondent. "And we can't even stop them. Not only do we not have the _pissing_ resources, but we just so happen to need their bloody 'research' as well." He stood abruptly and scrubbed his face with his palms, then passed his hand through his reddish-brown hair, standing it on end. Without sparing a glance for Rebecca, he walked to the doorway, intending to kill some time in the warehouse training while he still had some down time, anything to get his mind off of thoughts of _Animus_ and _Templars_ and all those unpleasant aspects of this life he'd taken up. She remained silent when he paused, hand on the door frame, and muttered, "And I can't help but feel like _we're_ the ones spilling the blood of innocents, here. However indirectly."

He left Rebecca behind with a blank expression on her face, hand still on the Animus.


	3. Chapter 3

_A/N: Right, a bit longer this time. Getting a little bit into the swing of things._

_Again, thank you for the reviews, favorites, and alerts. You are beautiful and I love you._

_Just so you know, I'm not making guesses as to where they are located, and though I believe the Wiki suggests Italy, I'm keeping everything rather vague; Italy does not make sense to me because everyone -- Abstergo and Assassins both-- speaks either American or British English, but I am not willing to make any guesses, and I don't think the specific location is really relevant to this story's plot._

_See you on Friday._

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**2011**

Shaun and Rebecca were actually enjoying an evening of blissful respite, against all odds. The teams had been holed up for the day, either in the warehouse building or in their apartments scattered about nearby, an unexpected blizzard having caught the city off-guard, forcing the Assassin hideout to run on back-up generators when the power lines froze into uselessness.

Leaning into the black couch (a new addition to the Animus room and the only real place to relax), with a languid Rebecca sprawled to his right at the opposite end, Shaun idly wondered if this was how romantic relationships were supposed to begin, with an attractive woman and a reasonably handsome man (if he might be so bold) confined to one another's presence on a blustery winter's eve, conversation waning into pleasant silence. They'd become quite comfortable with each other over the years, despite the growing number of nameless casualties that weighed heavily on Shaun's mind and shortened his temper while seeming to roll off Rebecca's shoulders as a necessary, if unfortunate, side effect of what simply had to be done.

The shrill ringing of Rebecca's cell phone broke the comfortable silence between the two and derailed Shaun's train of thought. They exchanged surprised glances-- all of the teams were accounted for, and Lucy was not supposed to check in for another two weeks. When the phone rang again insistently, Shaun raised an impatient eyebrow and gestured for her answer it. After fumbling hastily, tugging it free from the front pocket of her jeans, Rebecca slid the phone open and brought it to her ear cautiously.

"Hello? May I ask who-- Lucy? What-- Hold on, _what?_ Slow down." Silence. "Oh. Oh, _shit_." If she had been reclining on the couch before, feet stretched out and butting up close to Shaun's legs, she wasn't any longer, feet now planted firmly on the floor, leaning forward, elbows on knees, left hand gripping her hair, orange cardigan slipping of her shoulders as she tried to follow Lucy's rapid, frantic report. When at last she slid the phone closed, she let out a ragged sigh and turned her head to face a very alarmed Shaun Hastings.

"Subject sixteen just died." She leaned stiffly back into the couch as Shaun let out a stream of curses. He rose from the couch and began pacing.

"How did it happen? Lucy said they were being more careful, especially once he started going . . . well . . . mad, right?" _Mad_ was too kind. _Completely mental_ might have been more appropriate. He pushed his hair back roughly. Rebecca chewed on her lip.

"Lucy said . . . ah, jeez, she said it actually wasn't the Animus. Not-- not directly." She took a deep breath when Shaun glared at her for being vague and entirely _not helpful_. "He killed himself. He must have been completely crazy, worse than they thought. He covered his room and the entire lab in his blood, drew weird symbols and words that didn't make any sense with it."

Shaun furrowed his brow. "Why would he do that?" He sat down on the arm of the couch by Rebecca, his back to her. "Doesn't matter, does it? It still means that any person who goes into that _thing_--" he jerked a thumb in the direction of the Animus, "--won't be living to any ripe old age. Now, Assassins may not necessarily be known for their longevity, but this is just fucking ridiculous. How many innocent people are we going to let the Templars get rid of in the name of 'world peace' or whatever it is they tell themselves they're up to before we stop considering them to be _expendable?_"

Rebecca listened patiently through his tirade, knowing he'd like what she had to say next even less. "It gets a lot worse. They've picked up some leads on their next subject."

He snorted. Of _course_ they had. The Templars were all too eager to ruin others' lives. "Right, because that's _terribly_ surprising. Never mind that they're still scrubbing the blood from the walls after they destroyed the last one. Never mind that at all. Nutters."

"Shaun, shut up. This time, it's _really_ bad." He gave her a sharp look. "They think . . . they're pretty sure he'll be able to give them Altair's memories." She would have smirked when Shaun choked if it wasn't so damn _serious_. Every Assassin knew what that meant, knew how important Altair was. Understood that his knowledge should _not_ fall into Templar hands.

"Bloody hell. You're having me on, right? _Christ_, this is bad. What do we do now?" He turned to look when she got wearily to her feet.

"We find a way to stall them. Give the guy a chance to not end up on a slab in Abstergo's basement. They don't have anything solid yet, so we can tangle what we can and try to find him first. They _can't have_ what he knows." Her normally lively features were slack and tired as she fussed with her sweater, straightening it back onto her shoulders properly.

Shaun couldn't help but lament the unfortunate turn of events.

"I was _enjoying_ this evening, you know. Never a bloody moment's rest," he grumbled, already on his way to his computer. There would be many, many long nights ahead, he knew, trying to save yet another poor bastard from dying in that nightmare machine.


	4. Chapter 4

_A/N: Right, so when I wrote this I forgot that Desmond is in Abstergo in September (based on the e-mails he reads on Lucy's terminal) which means these guys have been striving to protect him from the Templars for -several- months, since last chapter was set in the winter. I hadn't necessarily intended for the search to be so extended, but it still works._

_I don't know if you can tell yet, but I really enjoy writing for Shaun._

_Thanks, folks. Over and out. See you Tuesday._

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**2012**

When the Assassins received word that Abstergo had found its seventeenth subject, the entire hideout echoed with Shaun's curses. Rebecca had to make sure none of the others came anywhere near the enraged Englishman, who was in a spitting foul mood, unpredictable and potentially apt to start a fight. He stormed without purpose on the warehouse floor like a caged animal, glaring at anything and everything that fell under his blurred gaze, glasses abandoned, folded and hanging from the pocket of his button-up shirt when he lost the patience to keep fussing with them, feeling as though the past five years had been _exactly_ what he feared they'd be – a _bloody_ catastrophic waste of time. An _absolute_ waste. They had worked rather hard for _months_ to follow the leads Lucy had given them, but when it turned out the _idiot_ had registered for a _motorcycle license_ of all things, well. There was only so much they could do at that point before risking exposing their entire operation. When Lucy called to report, Shaun hadn't bothered staying to listen once he heard her say, wearily, that their efforts had been for naught, and that Abstergo officially had its seventeenth test subject, opting to let his blind, impotent rage take over.

His fury slowly worked its way from loud and vocal to quiet and brooding, and by the time Rebecca dared to venture into his presence he had fallen entirely silent. That is not to say she didn't think she could floor him in a heartbeat if necessary; slim or no, she packed one _hell_ of a punch, and she _knew_ it; she simply didn't want it to have to come to that. She watched him pace, his hands locked behind his head, from her vantage point on the ramp above, waiting patiently for his ire to subside, knowing they would have to really hit the grindstone soon and he would be nearly useless if he kept up his present state of agitation.

It wasn't until he finally gave up his predatory patrol and leaned against a crate, looking more glum than murderous, that Rebecca decided he'd cooled down enough to approach and descended from on high, her light frame moving soundlessly to creep up next to Shaun, whose increasingly long hours and stress had denied him the time to train and consequently softened his own figure. Like Rebecca, however, Shaun was not to be underestimated. He tilted his head slightly in acknowledgment when he sensed her silent approach, outwardly composed; were it not for his behaviour moments ago, and had she not known him for so long, she might not have even realized he found their present situation to be less-than-satisfactory. But she _did_ know him, had known him for _years_, and little things, like the way he didn't bother replacing his glasses even though he couldn't see for _shit_ without them, or the fact that his button-up had come partially untucked and was rumpled up on the side, or the fact that his first words to her weren't laced with sarcasm, jocular or otherwise, betrayed him.

"If this bloke manages not to get killed by that machine, go mad, or kill himself, then, and only then, will I get excited," he said quietly, without much hope. The sixteen previous science experiments hadn't set the greatest precedent for survival. "Otherwise, you're a bit out of luck, I'm afraid." He tilted his head back to stare at the ceiling instead, resting against the crate.

Rebecca patted his arm, understanding the hidden apology for his outburst. "Don't worry about it." She smirked a little and said, "You'll come around." Her smirk widened a bit when he huffed grumpily.

"I'm glad _you're_ so certain. I had my way, at this point your _baby_ would be so many tiny, shattered pieces of rubbish by now."

"Good thing you didn't get your way. You know, since we're gonna need to _use_ it soon."

It was no credit to Shaun that he was frustrated enough to let it cloud his senses, otherwise he would have made a very important connection when she said that; instead he just glowered and grumped and gave her a dirty look.

"What do you mean, 'use it?' Neither of us have any important information just _waiting_ to be discovered in our genes, and I'm pretty sure none of the others do either. It's bloody useless."

Rebecca almost wanted to deck him, to shock him out of his disgusting, despairing, biting mood, and the more she thought about it the more tempting it became so she just shook that urge away because she knew in the end it would do more damage than good, because for all his tough exterior there was a good chance he would take it personally and she _really_ didn't want to deal with that.

Instead, she spelled it out for him. "Lucy says we can't let the Templars keep this guy so pretty soon we'll be launching a rescue operation for the both of them." He glanced at her sidelong, faint interest sparking in his eyes, and maybe a bit of self-reproach for not _getting_ it when he should have.

"Just how soon are we talking?" She met his gaze and could see the thoughts racing already behind his eyes, forming, dismissing, and creating anew plan after plan, even before he knew any details.

"How about within the month?" She was pleased when his eyes widened slightly in surprise. "And that's a generous estimate. It could be sooner. Which means we need to get to work. Now."

He nodded almost enthusiastically, pushing himself away from the crate with one hand and unfolding his glasses with the other, eager to fucking _finally_ be able to _do_ something about those Templar bastards instead of sitting on his hands as victim after victim piled up, knowing that without Rebecca that could have been _him_. Rebecca began walking away as he carefully replaced his glasses on his face, beckoning for him to follow. Blinking as the world came into focus once more, he corrected himself with the admission that no, he would not have ended up like them. With his ordinary genes, his death would have been swift, a bullet between the eyes and not a backward glance. _Still,_ he thought, hastening to catch up, death is death and he was rather glad to have avoided an early one.


	5. Chapter 5

_A/N: Chapter five, lovely pretty people. All right._

_See you Friday._

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The silence was worse than the deafening fury. It was silence cultivated from the knowledge that friends and colleagues would not be returning, their absence acute in the suddenly oversized hideout. What assassins remained from the abysmal failure of a rescue were those who had staked out watches outside the Abstergo building or those few who were on other missions. It was a mercy that the only family these assassins had was each other; no despondent, grief-stricken spouses to console, no children. Just friends and sometimes-lovers whose death was assured but nevertheless devastating.

Glaring hard at his computer screen, Shaun wondered briefly if this man, this Desmond Miles, had any idea of his apparent value to their cause, wondered whether he really was worth the trouble they had gone through to ensure his safety, whether his life was truly more important than the sixteen others who did not merit a rescue attempt, had not been worth saving. He wondered whether Desmond knew of their failure. He wondered if he cared.

This time, his brooding didn't take him from his work, didn't pry him from in front of his desk, steal him from his chair, where he rooted himself, throwing himself into his duties with a kind of manic intent, clamping down on his resentment toward the man he'd never met but had sent men and women to die for in a plan that had been rushed out of necessity when Lucy had called, almost frantically telling them that matters had progressed faster than anticipated, he was taking to the Animus better than she'd hoped but they now had a one-week deadline, and that rescue needed to come a bit sooner, please.

It hasn't worked. However far they managed to get in infiltrating the Templar base this time, they _certainly _would not be able to manage again. Lucy was on her own, and while she could more than handle herself, their failure would make her escape that much more difficult, especially with an untrained deadweight in tow.

Unwillingly, Shaun had to acknowledge the silver lining. Desmond Miles was taking to the Animus well, and that news brought with it the tiniest spark of excitement, the slightest hint of optimism to combat his crushing bitterness, which Shaun carefully kept to himself to forestall any smugness from Rebecca. He buried himself in work he knew he'd have to portion out much more carefully when (not if, _when_) Lucy returned from her seven-year absence with the latest lab rat, work that would have to share his time with data to be analyzed from the Abstergo sessions. He buried himself in it to keep the guilt at bay, to ignore Rebecca who seemed to take it all in stride like everything else, only the tight lines around her eyes betraying her everlasting calm as a lie as she continued to fondle and fiddle with her baby, which now bore absolutely no resemblance whatsoever to the parent machine, and was certain, she insisted, to function at _least_ a hundred times better than anything Abstergo could put together, trying to convince him that subject seventeen would _not_ end up like the sixteen who came before him. Shaun tried not to worry about the fact that knowing his name would make the blood on his hands that much more difficult to bear, should Desmond Miles go the way of his predecessors.

"Shaun." The sound of Rebecca's voice cut through his morbid reverie; unbeknownst to Shaun she had walked into the room, cell phone in hand, having just got off the phone with Lucy, bursting with new information. His head jerked in surprise and the briefest of thoughts flickered through his mind that he was turning into a piss-poor assassin, letting himself be caught off-guard like that, before he cleared his throat to respond.

"What is it, Rebecca? I _am_ rather busy at the moment, if you hadn't noticed." His voice was acid and his fingers tapped irritably at his keyboard, sending commands and suggestions to go _there, _not _there_, setting up decoys and planting false leads for the Templars to follow, anything to distract, deflect, keep them at bay; he didn't bother sparing Rebecca a glance.

She ignored the biting remarks as she always did, only moving to lean easily against his desk, arms crossed and an excited glint in her eyes. "How much do you know about Renaissance Italy?" Her voice was full of something lively and cheerful and altogether unexpected given the previous day's events.

"It wasn't quite my focus at university, but I know a bit about it. I assume there's a _reason _you're asking about this?" Despite himself, a grain of curiosity insinuated itself into his voice, and he turned slightly in his chair to look up at her.

"Oh, no reason in _particular_, only that we've got ourselves an ancestor to research. Remember that deadline?"

One week. Just one week, and it was already almost finished. He snapped to attention. "Give me a name."

"Ezio Auditore da Firenze, also known as the Prophet, descendent of Altair ibn La-Ahad and ancestor to Desmond Miles." She looked smug as she rattled off the brief genealogy, and he realized she was no doubt thrilled at the prospect of _finally _testing out her Animus 2.0, her baby, the product of five long years filled with brilliant strokes of genius and innovation.

Shaun mentally cracked his knuckles in preparation, clearing his computer screen and bringing up a blank document, ready for notes. "Right. I'm going to need books, and access to articles, dissertations, letters,_ journals_, anything and everything on anyone and _everyone_ who might have associated with this fellow. Some things I can get on the internet, but others . . . well. Can you have someone get those for me?"

She looked a little queasy, like she hadn't anticipated such a ready response and _really_ didn't want to mess around with those kinds of historical texts. Shaun scoffed internally; this was _research_, this was _his_ specialty, _his_ baby. "Do you really need _all_ of that?"

"I like to be thorough. Like I said, can you have someone get those for me?"

She sighed. "As long as it isn't _me_. . . Yeah. I'll send a few of the others out. Just make a list."

"Excellent." Shaun _loved_ research. A little preliminary digging and he'd be ready to hit the books, and hard. This was _far_ more interesting than tactical work. He lived for this bit.

That seed of resentment would not be quelled, however, and Shaun found himself wondering bitterly whether his efforts would even be appreciated. Christ, if the Animus proved to be as wonderful as Rebecca seemed to believe, wouldn't that make at least _part_ his job somewhat redundant? He shook his head, refusing to let himself go down that path, to let himself be distracted by such _entirely_ unproductive thoughts. He could entertain his insecurities later. For now, happier, more important matters were at hand. He rubbed his hands together in anticipation of the work that was to come.


	6. Chapter 6

_A/N: We're getting there, we're getting there. Tuesday should see some Desmond, at last. In the meantime, enjoy my raging fanaticism for Shaun._

_Don't be a stranger. See you then._

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The next two days were almost blissfully busy for everyone at the compound, with Shaun buried in texts from the fifteenth century; letters, memoirs, anecdotes and court proceedings swimming around in his head alongside modern-day texts, all fighting to make sense of a time five hundred years past, of a man who all but didn't exist past his seventeenth year, the task made somewhat easier by Shaun's uncanny ability to find answers and pinpoint relevant bits of data; particularly useful when confronting a sea of seemingly impenetrable walls of text, the pertinent information practically jumping out at him. Drowning in the wealth of information was a mercy, keeping Shaun from dwelling on thoughts of _is she safe_ and _will she make it out_ and _maybe the Templars will just kill them both because it's the end of the week and the word 'deadline' is suddenly so. very. sinister_. Better to focus his attentions on people five hundred years dead rather than the potentially recently deceased.

Rebecca, meanwhile, busied herself with system checks, running through scenario after scenario, attempting to create situations that might cause errors so she could fix the flaws and keep them from happening again, while the remaining assassins were either sent on errands to pick up more supplies, or were busy trying to make additional living space for both Lucy and Desmond. Fortunately, Lucy had space set aside from when they first set up this base, but Desmond. . . Well. They'd find room for him. Somewhere.

Shaun _attempted_ to be succinct and concise as he created files for the Animus database, but he found his notes growing into a massive collection of information detailing historical figures and architecture, pages upon pages of what others might consider trivial data, pages filled with connections and conclusions not made in the source texts. He would have preferred to keep the database as-is, but knew, sadly, that the man going into the Animus would likely have _zero _interest in reading so much on each person and place he encountered. Instead, he found himself forced into short paragraphs into which he tried to pack as much information as possible. As he typed the last sentence on his current subject, the tinny chirping of Rebecca's phone broke the silence. After a few moments of even _more_ silence, unusual following a call or text, Shaun swiveled in his chair to observe a mute Rebecca staring at the message on the small, glowing display.

"I do hope you intend to _share_ whatever has riveted your attention so thoroughly," he prompted, when the seconds dragged on with her gaze still fixed dazedly on the screen.

She lifted her eyes and fixed them on him, her tongue finally coming to life, bubbling and babbling with excitement. "They're coming. Shaun, they're out, they're safe, they're on their way. Lucy's coming back!" She launched herself out of her chair, practically leaping over her workstation to tackle Shaun right out of his chair, and for a moment his only thought was _oh thank god_, relief clearing away five years worth of resentment long enough to pat Rebecca's head, ignoring, briefly, the way his glasses hung haphazardly from his face and the fact that the floor was _very _hard and uncomfortable, momentarily content to let Rebecca nearly strangle him, her arms wrapped tightly around his neck in an ecstatic embrace.

Only momentarily, however.

"Yes, well, that's lovely to be sure, but would you mind getting off me now? This is becoming _quite_ uncomfortable, actually," he said primly, pushing his glasses back in line when she freed him from her clutches and got to her feet, watching him fuss and push himself into a sitting position on the floor. She clicked her tongue in disapproval, slipping her phone back into the pocket of her grey track jacket and resting her hand on her hip.

"Admit it, Shaun. You're at least a _little_ excited. You _have_ to be." He scowled at her, ready to deny any such thing, but as usual she spoke over him. "Come _on_, Shaun, just admit it!" Her insistence broke through the scowl he attempted to maintain while clambering, entirely undignified, to his feet. A small smile played about his lips as he bent down to right his chair.

"I don't think I do, actually." Her eyes narrowed as he straightened, and he held up a hand to stave off any scolding. Or bruising. "All right. Fine. Perhaps just . . . just a little bit. But, no gloating! We have far too much work to do to waste time like that."

She rolled her eyes. "You are a bitter man, Shaun Hastings. A bitter, lonely old man."

Mildly affronted, Shaun sniffed. "I am hardly old, thank you _very_ much. As for bitter and lonely, well. . ." He let his voice trail off and shrugged. "I'm beginning to think that comes with the territory, doesn't it?" Pushing his glasses aside, he pinched the bridge of his nose between thumb and forefinger, and then shook his head. He did _not_ want to have _that_ conversation. "How soon until they get here?"

"Less than an hour," she answered, apparently just as eager for the subject change as he, then gave a little snort of laughter. "She had to stuff him in the trunk so he wouldn't be noticed."

Shaun actually _laughed_. "Now _that_, that is brilliant." For some reason he got a certain amount of satisfaction from knowing the discomfort the other man must be in, perhaps anticipating his own discomfort that would be brought on by too-long days in front of the computer that already dominated his time. He couldn't remember the last time he was free to actually go outside for pleasure; the last time he'd even had a day off was the night of the blizzard and even that had been cut short. He figured his frayed nerves and quick temper were more than justified. His amusement soured. "Mind, he better not complain, we-"

"-don't have the time for it, yeah," Rebecca interrupted him with another roll of her eyes, walking back to her workstation, long used to the cranky historian's sudden shifts in mood. "But you're right, we do have work to do – we need to get the Animus systems up and running, ready for its first victim." Shaun winced at her choice of words, and she grimaced in turn. "Sorry. We'll probably run him through a few of Ezio's early years today and call it good; time constraints or no, he's probably had a rough day and we don't want to push our luck, no matter how well he takes to it."

"Hmm, yes, and now we get to see if the Animus 2.0 actually _works,_" he teased somewhat maliciously. "I, for one, have my doubts." He ignored her indignant spluttering as he seated himself at his desk once more. While grateful for that brief interlude, he still needed to figure out just how to shave down his notes until they were of an _acceptable_ length, feeling as though he was writing for a _child_ rather than grown adults who ought to have the decency to _care_ about historical accuracy, and that on top of assisting Rebecca in getting the Animus started up.

_And I'm not _actually_ bitter and lonely, _he thought grumpily. _It isn't as though we even have _time _for that, anyway_. Besides, who would he spend time with? Rebecca? He hesitated at the keyboard, reflecting. He _had_ considered it, before all _this_ mess started up with subject seventeen. Though, really, she never seemed terribly interested; not that Shaun was any kind of expert on reading people romantically. Maybe he'd give it a go. When he wasn't wrapped up in one of five hundred things he had to accomplish at any given moment, that is. He sighed, and set about his business. Time to focus.


	7. Chapter 7

_A/N: "Hello, Desmond. Go away."_

_See you lot on Friday._

* * *

By the time Lucy showed up over an hour later than intended, exhausted and bloodstained with a slightly bemused and disoriented but otherwise apparently unharmed Desmond Miles, Shaun's resentment and bitterness had formed a dangerous brew with gnawing worry, turning what ought to have been a joyous reunion between old friends into quick greetings punctuated by Shaun's insistence that they _get to work_, earning him a sharp look from Rebecca and a raised eyebrow from Lucy, which he of course shrugged off.

"We're still powering up a few of the systems, so you have a few minutes to catch your breath," Rebecca informed Desmond and Lucy both. Sudden realization hit Shaun as he sorted the papers on his desk into an illusion of organization, that Desmond was now officially the belle of the ball, and he shouldn't have been jealous, but he _was_, and when he turned his attention back to his computer he had to grit his teeth when unfamiliar footsteps sounded against the wooden floor behind him, drawing nearer, finally coming to a halt to Shaun's left. Repressing a sigh, Shaun gave no indication that he was aware of the man's presence, focusing instead on the tactical simulation in front of him (having finally decided that after nearly two days without sleep of compiling the database, he had a sufficient buffer to turn to other tasks for a little while). When Desmond cleared his throat, it struck a nerve in Shaun and maybe the other man hadn't meant it but it sounded an awful lot like a very unwelcome _demand_ for attention that Shaun was not prepared to give, so he leaned on his right elbow a little and glared up at Desmond from behind his glasses, willing him to understand _just_ how unwelcome he was.

"What is it, Desmond? Is there something I can do for you? Something terribly important, I hope, because I am not, in fact, just playing solitaire or twiddling my thumbs. Some of us actually_work_ around here, you know," he bit out sarcastically. A brief look of surprise flickered across Desmond's face, followed quickly by something almost _calculating_ before settling on a defensive smile, holding up his hands in mock-defeat, ceding the battle before it was fought.

"Whoa, sorry man. I, uh, don't think I caught your name?" Shaun could hear the friendliness in his tone, could tell that really, he had no desire to fight, didn't see the need and really just wanted to talk to someone, but Shaun did _not_ care. He was self-aware enough to be able to list to himself exactly why had had decided to hate Desmond Miles. Knowing the reasons, and just how unreasonable they were, did nothing to remedy that hatred; if anything, it only served to augment it, fueled in part by a certain amount of self-disgust. That the man seemed to be perfectly agreeable (if arrogant, if Shaun was reading things right) did not bother Shaun in the slightest. Someone needed to bear the brunt of his wrath, and he felt somewhat more comfortable venting at a perfect stranger than someone he'd known for years (and to whom he owed a life or two).

"'Didn't catch my name?' What are you, some sort of pick-up artist? Anyway, if you had been paying _attention_ you would have heard me introduce myself as 'Shaun Hastings,' but I can see how that might be a _bit_ too much to ask."

The conversation went rapidly downhill from there, culminating when Shaun became _quite _indignant to have his hundreds of notes and tasks classified as mere _stuff_, nearly giving himself an aneurism in his furious correction of that assessment. Finally, Desmond seemed to understand that he was _absolutely_ not welcome in Shaun's presence, so kindly _fuck off_ you _git_. Shaun _may _have uttered those last thoughts under his breath, but if Desmond heard them, he gave no indication, only walked away, perhaps a fraction less confident in his retreat than in his approach. Only when the man, after several minutes of simply looking around the room, sparked a conversation with Rebecca did Shaun relax, wondering _why_ the latest addition to their little party had bothered _him_ first.

He didn't entertain that thought long, however, because shortly, Rebecca announced that, if he was ready, Desmond could hop on into the Animus chair and get to work.

Desmond shrugged and seated himself. "Might as well make myself useful," he said, good-naturedly. Shaun made an only-partially successful attempt to _not_ snort derisively. No one paid him any mind, though, and a few small adjustments later Desmond was effectively dead to the world, playing through a minor memory.

"You owe me an apology, I think," Rebecca told Shaun, when all appeared to be running smoothly. She had her chin resting on the heel of her palm as she glared at the historian, a glare Shaun very pointedly ignored. Lucy's eyes darted between the two, plainly curious.

"Why, what did he do?"

"He insulted my baby, that what he did. 'It probably won't even work,' he said." Her voice was, once again, a poor imitation of Shaun's own British tones. "Obviously, he was wrong. So pay up. I want my apology."

Shaun pushed his frames up his nose. "Now, I'm sure you're misquoting me," he protested.

"Uh, don't care! Apologize," she demanded.

"You're being incredibly childish, Rebecca." His deflection sounded weak in his own ears, and he knew, he _knew_ she'd get her way.

"What's that, Hastings? _Still_ no apology? Pretty sure I _own_ your ass, limey. Gimme what I want." Glare still in place, she slowly leaned back in her chair and let a feral grin part her lips, forecasting imminent danger. Shaun held up his hands in defeat.

"Low blow, Crane." With a sigh, he relented. "Fine. I'm _terribly_ sorry I insulted that infernal machine. Please, _don't_ kill me." He sounded more bored than apologetic, and Rebecca appeared to consider his words thoughtfully, tapping her chin while she decided whether to accept the plainly insincere apology. Lucy, meanwhile, had covered her mouth with her hand and was laughing silently behind it. Rather than call Shaun out on his obvious insincerity, Rebecca turned to their newly-returned leader instead.

"What's so funny?"

Lucy waved a vague hand at the pair of them. "You two! How on earth did you last seven years without me? I don't know if you're twelve or married."

Shaun harrumphed. "_Rebecca_ is twelve. _I_ am long-suffering."

"Hey, check it out!" Rebecca pointed at her monitor, any offense taken at Shaun's disrespect apparently forgotten in light of what transpired there. "Here, Shaun, I'll feed it over to your station. It's really cool! Ezio's learning to free run."

Shaun _wanted_ to say, "I don't really give a fuck, so don't bother, I am _not_ interested," but that would have been a terrible lie. He wanted to merely glance at the screen then switch back to his regular, routine, everyday work material, but instead found himself caught up, captivated by the young man's stuttering attempts, trailing behind his older brother as they raced across the rooftops of Florence. His bran screamed at him for a moment, pointing out that what he was seeing was _impossible_, could not possibly be happening, while he knew with absolute certainty that he was looking at people who had been dead for five hundred years as though they were alive and well, just on the other side of the camera recording them. Lucy half-smiled at their incredulous wonder, and at their wincing reaction as Ezio took a rather nasty tumble.

"Lucy, this is incredible! Altair's recordings must have been _amazing_." Rebecca's voice held a fervent, awed tone as she kept her eyes glued to the screen.

"Which reminds me. . ." Lucy pulled a case from her back pocket. "Shaun! Heads up." When his head swung in her direction, she lobbed the case his way, forcing him to scramble to catch it. "That is one year from Altair's life – everything we caught at Abstergo. There's also some security feeds, but they're mostly uneventful. Have fun."

Shaun turned the case over in his hands. "No ill-conceived escape attempts, then?" he mused.

"No. Either he figured it would be pointless, or he didn't care. Or he couldn't come up with a way out. If he had, we probably wouldn't have been able to get out today."

"Hm, quite so. And, I can't help but notice that you're covered in_ blood_, Lucy. Not yours, I trust?" He asked lightly, mild concern coloring his tone. Shaun was grateful for the distraction from the feed; it was easier to pretend not to care with something else holding his attention.

Lucy looked down at her top as though noticing the blood for the first time, pulling the bottom hem to get a better look at the damage.

"Huh. I really liked this shirt. I had to wear business clothes over there, you know. Heels aren't especially practical. Or comfortable." She raised her eyes to Shaun's faintly annoyed expression and shook her head. "Not mine."

"Whoa!" Rebecca's exclamation once again jerked their attention back to the video feeds. Shaun's eyebrows shot up at the sight of Ezio sailing through the air, arms thrown wide open like spread wings, Federico at the roof's edge, panic and horror etched into his young face as his little brother turned gracefully in the air in his rapid descent, his face a mask of calm contentment as though he had done this every day of his life until now, his safe landing in the pile of hay stack below assured. Federico looked like he might be sick but he scrambled down the side of the building slipping, missing footholds in his haste, sprinting when he hit the ground, then tackling Ezio back into the cart of hay he had emerged from, relieved fury coming off the older brother in waves. He planted his fist squarely in the middle of the squirming Ezio's face, shouting and swearing a tangled jumble of words and sentences that did not make it through the feeds at an excited and laughing future assassin.

"I'll have to fix the audio link," Rebecca mumbled. She appeared vaguely impressed and said, "I can't believe he just took a leap of faith without even knowing _how_. That boy is a natural." She snickered. "Did you see Federico's face? He was _so_ pissed!"

Five hundred years ago, someone's older brother was _furious_, and they were watching it as though it had only _just_ happened. Shaun's head couldn't take it anymore. He hurriedly minimized the video.

"How wonderfully relevant, Rebecca," he snapped dismissively. "I'm going to do some actual _work _now, do you mind?" Rebecca shook her head when Lucy opened her mouth to reprimand the historian, giving her a look that said she would explain later. Shaun's temper had grown _markedly_ shorter over the years, something she understood and dealt with because he hadn't grown up with this life, hadn't known it from birth, had been recruited into it to avoid certain death and would likely never come to terms with it. He'd killed because he had to, but she knew he'd much prefer to work at his desk, some connection to a world he'd left behind, a world of research and secrets he could uncover, webs he could unravel – a world, a time when he didn't feel the weight of unknown lives, blood on his hands.

Lucy and Rebecca spoke in hushed tones thereafter, keeping an eye on the unconscious man in the Animus and his ancestor on the screens, Lucy filling in details her reports didn't contain, and the details of their escape. Shaun listened in silently, intent on his work, though with a small window open discretely in the corner of his screen; the Auditore brothers were in full swagger, making eyes at the young Florentine women, despite the ugly bruise that had blossomed on the younger's left eye. With an annoyed roll of his eyes, Shaun turned back to Lucy's notes on the Abstergo sessions and loaded up the first memory in another small window. He gave a small whistle at the remarkable resemblance Desmond shared with Altair; a quick glance at the Italian ancestor told Shaun the banker's son would also be the spitting of both Desmond and Altair in a few years.

"I wonder if he'll get the scar, too," Shaun muttered under his breath, then snorted to himself. _That_ was just utterly ridiculous, and incredibly unlikely. The fact that the three could easily pass for one another was no doubt purely coincidence. Of course. He shook his head, pushing those thoughts aside, labeling them as _not productive_, absolutely unhelpful, and ultimately distracting. For the next few hours, he would be business _only_.


	8. Chapter 8

_A/N: In this note, I complain about being inadequate. -dramatic sigh-_

_I hope I'm not boring everyone with all this bloody introspection. Terribly sorry about all that. It doesn't get any better, unfortunately. Just endless paragraphs of it, I'm afraid, with the barest smattering of dialogue to break it up. OTL_

_I've looked over this chapter a dozen times (roughly), and keep finding new errors, to my everlasting frustration. So, forgive any that linger, I suppose._

_Also: Argh, I am writing so painfully slow lately, it is very upsetting. I'll run out of buffer if I'm not careful. _

_See you Tuesday._

* * *

When Desmond awoke from the Animus, he gave a loud groan as he sat up, gingerly swinging his legs over the side and planting his feet on the floor. Immediately, Rebecca was at his side, peppering him with questions as she disconnected him from the machine.

"Are you okay? How was it? What was it like? Was it better than Abstergo's? It _was_ better than Abstergo's, right? You can tell me if it wasn't." Lucy shook her head at Rebecca's enthusiasm but did not look up from her computer. Unsurprisingly, Shaun gave no indication that he knew of or cared for Desmond's return to reality.

"Uhh . . ." Desmond managed, blinking, still trying to sort out his thoughts, attempting to separate one reality from another in his mind, which was coming up with convenient excuses for what he just experienced, labeling it as an altogether _too_ realistic film.

"Very eloquent Desmond, how very enlightening, thank you for sharing . . ." Shaun said in a low voice, not bothering to stop his analysis to needle the newcomer; if he expected an indignant reaction, he got no such thing, only a barely perceptible narrowing of eyes that Shaun couldn't see anyway, back turned to the Animus as it was.

"Ignore him," Rebecca said, leaning back against her desk in the corner. "So?"

"Right," Desmond said slowly, shaking his head. "It's, um. A lot more . . . vivid? Like I'm more _in _Ezio's body, like I'm in his head."

"More immersive. Check."

"And, I feel okay?" She nodded, waiting. Desmond ran over her questions in his head again. Oh. Right. "Oh! It was totally better than Abstergo's. Definitely more comfortable. Vidic's Animus was like laying on cement blocks. This is nice," he said, patting the soft red material of the chair. Rebecca beamed.

"See that, Shaun? I _told_ you it would be better," she gloated. Shaun waved a dismissive hand in her direction, evidently unwilling to start _that_ up again.

Rebecca clapped her hands together and pushed back from the desk. "Well, Desmond, it looks like you're off the hook for the rest of the day. Feel free to explore a bit. Uh, we don't have a separate room for you," she said, embarrassed. "So if you need to crash, you can do it there." She gestured toward a semi-closed-off area of the room behind Lucy's desk, where Desmond could see a large bed, some chairs, a couch, and a large television which was mounted on the wall. She shrugged apologetically. "Sorry it's not much for privacy."

"Eh, that's all right. Pretty sure Abstergo had cameras in the bathroom anyway." He matched her shrug and got to his feet, ignoring the strange discomfort in his muscles as he stretched. "Think I'll find the kitchen, if that's all right."

"Yup, go ahead and help yourself," Rebecca said. She'd settled herself in her chair behind her desk and was scanning streams of data as it scrolled across her screen.

Sensing he'd just been effectively dismissed, Desmond nodded and left, hands stuffed into the front pockets of his jeans.

~ x ~ x ~

Desmond woke with a start, bumping the kitchen table with his knee and toppling his empty yogurt cup and spoon with a clatter. He floundered for a moment as his sleep-addled brain struggled to take stock of the situation and remember just _where_ he was and why his neck _hurt _and just what exactly woke him up anyway? The yogurt cup rolled off the table and into his lap as he tried to piece the mystery together, marking his pants with a bit of yogurt that had lingered on the rim. His chair scraped against the pale blue tiles of the floor when he pushed away from the table and stood up to wet a paper towel, cursing a little under his breath that he hadn't exactly brought a suitcase, damn it, and these were the only pants he _had_.

A snort from the doorway caused Desmond to spin around on the spot, halfway to the sink. Shaun waved his own spoon as a greeting, appearing amused and, of course, slightly annoyed.

"It's nice to see you exercising your terribly exceptional skills of perception, vigilance, and dexterity. Tell me, are you _sure_ you're an Assassin, Miles? Because, I've seen the security tapes from Abstergo – you didn't even_ bother_ trying to escape." Never mind that Lucy said it was better that he hadn't – Shaun had ammunition and he was going to _use it_.

"No, I'm not," Desmond said, turning and continuing his trek to the sink with a shake of his head. He glanced over his shoulder while he wet a paper towel under the faucet. "Were you watching me _sleep_, Hastings?"

Shaun took a seat at the table after bending down to pick up Desmond's abandoned cup from the floor, and rolled his eyes. "Don't flatter yourself. And no, you're not what?"

Desmond snagged the cup from Shaun and searched for the garbage, eventually finding the bin under the sink while thinking that Shaun could have helped him at least a _little_ in finding his way around the kitchen. Paper towel and cup disposed of, he sat back down across from Shaun, rubbing his sore neck and ignoring the uncomfortable cold dampness on the front of his pants where he'd rubbed the yogurt away. "No, I'm not an Assassin. Look, I ran away from all that when I was sixteen. I hadn't thought about it since, and throwing me in some virtual reality machine won't change that." He chose to forget at that moment what Lucy had said about the bleeding effect, preferring his version of events for the moment.

Shaun was plainly unconvinced. "You don't just _run away_ from the Assassins. What about the Templars?"

"What about them? As far as I was concerned, they didn't exist." He relaxed in his chair, reclining a bit and stretching his legs out in front of him, hoodie bunching up a bit in the back. He tugged it back down as he continued. "Just some elaborate boogie man to keep the kids on the farm in line, not an actual threat. Oh, don't look at me like that, I was sixteen, and I had no reason to think I might be wrong. Never did, until now."

Shaun was _baffled_. he leaned forward a bit, an eyebrow raised to emphasize his incredulity at the other's idiocy. "I wasn't even raised with the Assassins and I knew there was something foul going on. Please tell me you're not actually that _thick_."

"Do you believe in a god?" Desmond asked abruptly. Shaun's other eyebrow lifted to join its brother as he leaned back in his chair, arms crossing in front of him.

"I don't see what it should matter, but no. Why?"

"Okay, so you don't believe in god, but if someone gave you proof, hard, undeniable proof, you would, right?"

Shaun's eyes narrowed slightly. "Possibly."

"Relax, I'm not attacking you or anything. That's not my point. If someone could _prove_ it, you'd have to believe it, whatever your reasons for not believing in the first place. That's kind of how I felt – 'Templars' were some huge, invisible evil I never saw, and I couldn't figure out why I should be so scared of them. No one would _prove_ it to me." He shrugged, an easy smile turning the corners of his mouth, pleased with his analogy.

"And so you ran away. For all the good it did you in the end. If you hadn't left, you might not have been captured." _And a lot of people might not have died trying to save you,_Shaun added silently.

"Maybe. Can't change it now, anyway." Desmond's easy dismissal seemed to strike exactly the wrong chord with Shaun, who jerked to his feet. Without a further word to Desmond, he pitched his spoon in the sink and empty cup in the garbage then walked swiftly, silently, and furiously out of the small kitchen, leaving a very startled Desmond Miles to wonder what the _hell_ just happened.

That night, Desmond lay in bed in borrowed pajama pants and an undershirt, staring up at the ceiling, only the faint tapping of fingertips against a keyboard at Shaun's workstation breaking the silence. He lay on top of the covers, not especially tired despite the day's excitement and unexpectedly exhausting Animus session, waiting for Shaun to finish what he was working on and go to bed. A sigh escaped his lips when his eyes took in the security camera perched near the corner of the television set; even _here_ they were recording him while he slept. Despite the surveillance, however, when Shaun finally turned off his monitor and slipped silently off to his own quarters, Desmond rolled out of bed and began pacing the Animus room.

At Abstergo, he had pretended to sleep because he couldn't be sure they wouldn't try to drug him or something to _make_ him rest, to keep him healthy enough to withstand the taxing hours spent in memories. Here, he was fairly sure he was among allies (if his newly acquired eagle vision was any indication), if not quite friends, and so he saw no reason to feign restfulness while replaying newly-discovered memories from the Animus in his mind. He tried not to let it get under his skin, that he remembered doing things he _knew_ he had never experienced, remembered places he had never visited and people he had never met (and never would meet).

He grimaced as his legs protested against his constant movement, telling him to _go to bed_ and _just what the hell did he think he was doing?_ When he came out of the Animus earlier, he was _certain_ someone had decked him while he was under, still feeling Federico's fist in his face five hundred years later. He tried to ignore that part of it all, the part that was _absolutely _impossible. At least he might be able to actually _talk_ to someone about . . . this. Hell, it'd be nice to talk to _anyone_ who wasn't flirting drunkenly with him from the other side of a counter while he mixed up yet another drink. Not to say he never took _advantage_, but. Well. In no way was _that_ ever true friendship, or romance, or anything actually anything more than immediate gratification followed by relocation. He hadn't had a proper relationship since the farm, something that had terminated the moment he left. After that, he had moved too frequently, used too many aliases and kept too low a profile to trust another person with that kind of intimacy. Not that he expected to find romance _here_, by any means. Lucy was nice but all business, Rebecca . . . well, he wasn't sure about her but she seemed a bit flighty, and Shaun. . . . Well. Desmond wasn't sure the man hadn't thought about killing him on sight when he walked in with Lucy, for whatever reason. He shook his head. It didn't matter, probably just some kind of territorial thing. Or something.

He stopped pacing in the centre of the room and shook his head; his thoughts had taken an unexpected turn. Stretching his arms above his head, he resumed his tour of the room, reckoning he could, if his muscles wouldn't rebel against him, do a backflip or something equally acrobatic. He could feel it in the strain and aches in his body; it was remembering things it had never known how to do before, was telling him that it could _do_ things, really cool and exciting things, if only it didn't _hurt_ quite so much, but if he slept it might be better in the morning.

He completed a final circuit of the room before making a retreat back to his bed, concluding his tour by toppling face first onto the mattress, finally giving in to his body's demands.


	9. Chapter 9

_A/N: I'm not terribly consistent with POV, and I hope that isn't too distracting. When I write I get caught up in it and then forget about practical things like consistency and, you know, making sense. _

_Boy, I really do need to start writing faster. Being sunburned and exhausted does nothing to ameliorate the situation. orz_

_See you lot later. Friday, here I come._

* * *

Excluding a daring escape followed by an uncomfortable hour or so in the trunk of a car, the next few days passed remarkably similarly to that first one. During that time, Shaun managed to control his homicidal urges toward the newest addition to the team of Assassins, satisfying himself with pot shots at the other man's ego. He never quite got the reaction he wanted, and Desmond seemed only too willing to put himself in the line of fire. Shaun had accused him off-handedly of stalking, and might even have believed that accusation had Desmond not also bothered the others with equal enthusiasm. Occasionally, Shaun felt almost _kind_, not that he thought the other man deserved it, obviously, and allowed a brief, almost civil conversation, giving in to Desmond's open prodding and probing for information, almost charming in its innocence. Almost. In those times, Shaun was nearly able to look past his grudge and accept Desmond as an ally, if nothing more. Of course, Desmond always managed to say _exactly_ the wrong thing and whatever ground gained was, for the most part, lost once more. Shaun would close up, seal the conversation with a signature acerbic comment, and retreat into his work.

Desmond, however, enjoyed a good challenge. After years of self-imposed near-isolation, he couldn't pass up an opportunity to freely speak with people he could count as comrades. While Lucy and Rebecca accepted his friendly overtures out-of-hand, Shaun's reluctance served to amuse and moreover provoke Desmond into more persistent advances. If he, once free from the Animus, made his way into Shaun's territory first, it was like an experiment to see what fantastic new insults the irate Englishman could come up with. While it may have caused Rebecca to reprimand Shaun, when he called Desmond a 'tiny child' he had to struggle to keep a straight face at the irony of the insult – by far, the most childish yet.

On the fifth day after his arrival, Desmond jerked out of the Animus in a cold sweat, a mere two hours after going under, blank shock written on his face.

"Whoa, Desmond, you all right? You look like you're gonna be sick," Rebecca asked with concern, half-rising from her chair at the unexpected ejection from the memory.

It took a moment for Desmond to be sure his voice would work, that he wouldn't either start babbling incoherently or choke on his words. The air in the room chilled his sweat on his skin, forcing a shiver and accompanying bile to rise sickeningly in his throat. The blank shock shifted slowly into a dark and troubled frown as he glanced helplessly at the others, each looking upon him with varying levels of alarm. He swallowed, then cleared his throat.

"You . . . you were watching, right? On those?" His voice was hollow as he pointed a shamefully shaky finger at one of the many computer screens surrounding the Anumus. He could still feel Ezio's rage and horrified disbelief coursing through his system, his nerves screaming for action, for something, for _anything, damn it_, the sight of his father and brothers dangling from the gallows firmly, painfully seared into his retina; he could still feel the raw sting in his throat from a remembered scream of denial.

Shaun had a curious expression on his face, one Desmond couldn't quite place but assumed it meant _trouble_ like everything seemed to with Shaun, and just this once he willed the man to withhold his acidic insults, to be _human_, just this god damned once, and felt another, quieter, surge of shock with the other complied, and merely said, "Take a few minutes, mate. We'll still be here when you're ready to go on."

Desmond wondered briefly if this was some new tactic, and Shaun would come at him from a blind spot couched in a false sense of security, but nothing happened, and at Lucy's nod of assent he waved a hand of thanks in Shaun's general direction and left the room on unsteady feet. He didn't go far, settling for slumping against the wall just on the other side of the entryway to the Animus room and sliding down to the floor, hands clasped between his knees, staring at the ceiling.

"What was _that_ all about?" Lucy's hushed voice drifted out of the room, settling on Desmond like a fine layer of dust. "He _never_ reacted like that in Altair's memories."

Desmond moved to get up again, to head to the kitchen or to the warehouse or somewhere away from _right there_ where he could hear them discuss what he desperately wanted to forget, for Ezio's sake.

"He just watched as his ancestor's family was betrayed and murdered, Lucy. You can't be surprised." Shaun's reproachful tone halted Desmond, perplexed and _very_ curious. He'd expected condemnation, not . . . not _support_.

Rebecca shared his surprise, by the sound of her voice. "Well, yeah, but it wasn't _his_ family, right? It shouldn't have made him react like that."

"Rebecca, have you forgotten? He _said_ it was a lot more immersive – that it was as though _he was Ezio_. Think about it." There was a hint of something like anger in Shaun's voice, and Desmond wondered _why_.

"Oh."

"Right. _Oh._" Desmond could practically hear the eye-roll accompanying the annoyed words. "I imagine you were too busy gloating over the superiority of your _baby_ to pay attention to that little detail."

"Well, what about Lucy? She didn't remember either," Rebecca said, stubbornly defensive.

"Lucy, as you may recall, was covered in blood, and had just escaped from the Templars." And if Shaun had anything further to say on the matter, Desmond didn't hear it because he retreated to the warehouse, trying to make sense of what he just heard and shove those gut-wrenching emotions aside, erase those images from his memory.

~ x ~ x ~

Over the next few hours, only Rebecca's occasional grumbling from her corner of the room disturbed what could have been a pleasantly silent interlude. Shaun pointedly ignored her complaints, which only seemed to spur her on, but really, she should have been paying closer attention to such details and had _no_ right to be angry with Shaun for calling her out. Lucy, finally fed up with the ridiculous affair, sighed and announced her intention to go after Desmond and check up on him.

"Coddle away, Lucy," Shaun said mildly, prompting a derisive snort that drew his attention from his computer.

"That's rich, Shaun, considering you're the one who told him to take some time out in the first place. No, don't say anything. Honestly, for someone always harping on about getting work done, you sure spend a lot of your precious time being an ass." She responded to his glare with a wry smile, then shook her head. "I'll be right back."

He thought he heard her mutter something like "Boy, it's good to be home," on her way out, but that would have been an unusual display of sarcasm and quite uncharacteristic of her, so he just gave an answering shake of his head to her back as she strode purposefully from the room and let it drop. She had a point. He knew she had a point, and that was _infuriating_. But rather than let self-examination run away with that little nugget, he pushed it aside as _irrelevant_.

When Lucy returned with Desmond trailing slightly behind her, a quick glance over Shaun's shoulder revealed that Desmond had lost that desperate, haunted look he had when he'd woken up from the Animus, and had relaxed once more into his familiar, easy-going confidence, waving aside Rebecca's slightly ashamed apology with a smile, and Shaun felt simultaneously smug and affronted that she wouldn't admit her mistake to _him_, but to Desmond, _of course_.

"You ready to go back in?" Lucy asked, tucking her blond hair behind her ears and tying it back quickly.

"Yeah," Desmond replied, then hesitated. "Actually, hang on just a sec."

Shaun paused his typing a moment when he heard the approach of careful footsteps, and peered up over his glasses, eyebrows raised when Desmond rested a tentative hand on his shoulder.

"Hey, uh, thanks for that, earlier." His other hand rubbed the back of his own neck, uncomfortable. "I really needed it. Don't worry," he said quickly, as though to forestall any reprimands Shaun may have had ready, "I won't make a habit of it or anything. Can't waste time, right?" And maybe he sounded a little tired but the look in his eyes was mischievous, and Shaun had a moment where he thought, _Everyone is against me._ His mouth twitched, almost smiled but scowled instead, relaxing into that far more familiar expression. Shaun's gaze shifted pointedly to the hand on his shoulder, and he cleared his throat.

"Right. Well. Good." _Very eloquent, Shaun, brilliant work._ He rolled his eyes as his voice came out more curt than he intended; Desmond's soft snort of laughter and shake of the head told Shaun he hadn't taken it seriously, as usual. The hand on his shoulder squeezed lightly, Desmond giving him a brief nod of gratitude before turning back to the task at hand.

"Okay! Back to business." While Rebecca hooked Desmond back up to the Animus, Shaun took a moment to stare blankly at his computer screen, definitely _not_ trying to ignore his shoulder, where he could still feel the slight pressure of Desmond's hand. Strange, that physical contact had become so rare that even something so insignificant as that small gesture of appreciation should cause him discomfort. He cleared his throat again, pressing his middle finger to the centre of his glasses, which had once more slipped from their perch, determined to ignore any further distractions.


	10. Chapter 10

_A/N:__ This might be my favorite chapter. While the POV is still distressingly inconsistent, I think Shaun makes up for it by being a cranky ass and using so many italics. And swears. Gracious me, Hastings, that's quite a mouth you have on you. Mm._

___It's been brought to my attention that I had anon reviews disabled (whoops). Fixed. Sorry about that._

_Tuesday. Be there. Here. Then. _:|

* * *

It was a miserable day; tempers were _short_, and tension was high. Lucy was stressed over the increased pressure from the Templars moving in, getting closer and closer every day it seemed; Rebecca was agitated that her baby had malfunctioned _again_, the third time in as many days. Shaun was _livid_ because he actually _didn't_ have as much work to do as he thought he would and was almost contemplating playing _solitaire_ if that wouldn't be so _god damn humiliating_ because hadn't he bitched at Desmond that first day, saying his work was far too important and time consuming to allow for anything like that? So he pretended to be analyzing old data or creating a new database or _something_ since the other teams were en route to various destinations and wouldn't need any help from him for hours yet. He felt like strangling someone. It absolutely _did not help_ that Desmond was pacing and that should not have been so distracting but it _was_ and in just the wrong way, and in his state of agitation Shaun couldn't help but be acutely aware of his every little move, and found himself trying to pick up the sound of his feet on the floor and predict his next move and _my god would he just stop it._

Desmond had discovered that, with the Animus out of commission, he was effectively as useless as Shaun liked to tell him he was, so he paced, paced and paced and paced, cursing in his head in Arabic and Italian, or imagining how Ezio would have amused himself by watching Leonardo paint or sketch or even stare off into space while dreaming up his next experiment, the beautiful genius always in some sort of motion and therefore always entertaining; Ezio always watching from under his hood so the other man wouldn't realize he'd caught Ezio's attention so completely, wouldn't see the small smile that hovered fleetingly on the assassin's somber face when Leonardo's eyes lit up when inspiration struck – Desmond imagined this, half-wishing he had something even like _that_ to distract him, but there was nothing, no one (and something sly within him whispered that there were three other people in that room, surely one of them was worth watching, someone _brilliant_ like Leonardo, if _meaner_; Desmond told that something to _shut up_), so he paced, frustrated and temperamental.

The tension in the room was unsettlingly palpable. Desmond's feet moved silently on the hardwood floors; the Animus was having an incredible effect on his agility, muscles continually reshaping, transforming a body that had once been toned for aesthetic purposes into one built for running, climbing, fighting, a taut, coiled spring, lean and dangerous. Rebecca's adjustments to the Animus and Lucy's typing made more sound than Desmond's pacing, but true to form, Shaun zeroed in on the one person in the room he felt entirely justified in being a complete prick to, with little consequence.

"Desmond, I realize you may be feeling a bit _useless_, seeing as you are, but you could at least _pretend_ to be doing something worthwhile, rather than storming about like a drunken elephant?" He'd turned in his seat to fire out that volley of slurs.

Something in Desmond gave up. He halted in his tracks, bitterness and anger rising as Shaun prodded that newly-found sore spot, that insecurity he'd ignored because he hadn't believed it until the past three days had proven it to be true, that maybe he was a little useless when they couldn't dissect him and parade his ancestor's every moment on the myriad displays set up throughout the room.

"Shaun!" Rebecca hissed at the historian, who merely shrugged dispassionately, eyes narrowed slightly as he silently challenged Desmond, who had nothing, no justification, no defense, and could only think of one thing to say.

"You're a dick."

It was lame, he knew it was lame, but he was _angry_, and he didn't get angry, not really, not often, he let things go, he brushed them off, deflected, or even laughed it all aside, but cooped up here with _no purpose_ triggered something, even something as ineffectual as a pithy insult.

Or, it should have been ineffectual. Slight shock registered in Shaun's eyes at the unexpected retaliation from the man who took everything he threw at him without batting an eye, and for some reason that pathetic insult _hurt_, but Desmond didn't see that quick transition of emotion, that shock-hurt-blank stare because he stalked from the room as soon as the words left his lips, heading to somewhere, anywhere away from Shaun and all that confusing meanness that he didn't quite know what to do with.

Shaun quickly turned to his computer again, moving his mouse aimlessly across the screen as he tried to assess his peculiar reaction to the insult. He wanted to chalk it up to simple surprise, but brutal self-honesty would not allow it. Surprise certainly _contributed_, but it was not by any means the only reason. Desmond had sounded so . . . _sincere_. The words had been flat, but the fire behind his eyes betrayed something that said _I am so sick of this shit_ and maybe a little bit of _why don't you go shut up and die or something_, and _that_ was what really got to Shaun, the thought that maybe, just maybe, all of this was wearing down on Desmond and maybe he actually hated it but was so good at deflection that he hadn't let himself feel it until just now, and the thought that maybe Desmond hated _him_, that pained him in a very unexpected way.

When he realized he'd been staring at his screen for ten minutes without doing anything other than highlight portions of his desktop in shaded squares aimlessly while lost in thought, he leaned back and sighed, hands laced and tangled in his hair. He pushed his glasses up a bit to rub his eyes then stood. Lucy looked up at him in surprise from behind her monitor, raising an inquisitive eyebrow.

"I'm taking a bit of a break." From _not_ playing solitaire even though he _could_ for all the work he had to do.

She nodded and looked back at her screen, saying mildly, "Check up on Desmond while you're at it. Maybe you can apologize." _Shit_. Never mind that he had something like that in mind already. Sort of. He avoided her gaze.

"I hardly see the need. But, I suppose we wouldn't want him leaping from a crate and breaking something, would we? Fine. I'll go babysit him." Jesus. The man wasn't even in the _room_ and Shaun couldn't resist taking pot-shots at him. That was an uncomfortable thought.

Lucy merely sighed and waved him away. Shaun hesitated, then walked to his bedroom to grab a book, any book, just _something_ to keep him occupied, something to read in the warehouse while pretending to not care what the other assassin was doing, to not worry that maybe he would be entirely unwelcome. _Sherlock Holmes_, said the spine. Fine. He opened the hard brown cover and started reading the first story as he walked from his room, shutting the door behind him and walking to ramp that would take him to the warehouse floor; it was a story he had started three times but hadn't found the time to finish. He had never made it past the third page, and he was bloody well determined to make good use of his much unanticipated free time. He paused, then, tucking his book under his left arm, hoisted himself up onto the ramp railing, and then used his free arm to leverage himself up onto one of the stacks of crates they used for training exercises. After a brief exploration, he sprawled out, tucked into a corner amidst the crates, comfortably elevated and (hopefully) isolated. With no sight or sound of Desmond, Shaun assumed the man had similarly sequestered himself elsewhere in the warehouse.

He was nearing the bottom of that third page, only a few minutes later, when he felt his hackles rise. He gritted his teeth and said, "Desmond, so help me if you bother me _now_ I will cause you five hundred varieties of suffering."

The sound of a foot slipping, a hasty recovery and the subsequent string of what sounded like curses in Italian jerked Shaun's attention away from the page. Two things occurred to him at that moment: one, apparently Desmond _hadn't_ realized he was there and therefore hadn't intended to distract him, and two, _since when did he speak Italian?_

"Desmond?"

The other man coughed as if embarrassed, out of sight. "Yeah. Shaun. Don't worry, I'll go away. No worries." There was a hint of bitterness in his voice but mostly he sounded nervous and anxious to be away, anxious for Shaun to forget-

"Hold on. First, show yourself." Shaun didn't rise when the other man lowered himself down onto the crate, just at Shaun's left. He glared sternly over his glasses. "All right. Now, correct me if I'm wrong, but I find it _very_ hard to believe you ever studied a foreign language, particularly one that happened, coincidentally, to be Italian. Am I wrong?"

Desmond didn't say anything, just stood there silently, avoiding Shaun's eyes and looking faintly sick.

"Well, Desmond? What the hell was that?"

Desmond lowered himself to sit in front of Shaun, knees up against his chest.

"The bleeding effect," he mumbled, face in his knees, so quiet Shaun almost didn't hear him, almost didn't understand him.

He needed to hear it again anyway. "I'm sorry, the _what?_"

Now Desmond looked at him like he was a bit thick, a look that said, _oh, come_ _on_, _you know what the bleeding effect is_. Still, he said again, more clearly, "It's the bleeding effect. You know how I'm picking up everything Ezio learns, and I guess that means more than fighting and scaling walls."

Shaun wasn't convinced. "You have subtitles in the Animus. Everything is translated, you shouldn't be picking up the language, you'd have to be experiencing it without the translation, and oh, my god." Realization hit Shaun suddenly, and he looked at Desmond long and hard. "How long."

"How long…?"

"How long have you been having visions? That's the only way you'd be picking up more than just physical skills."

Desmond gaped. "How did you work that out?"

"I told you. I have a gift." He preened a little at the other's impressed incredulity. He also had a fair bit of pride.

Desmond sighed. That little voice was back, whispering _See? What did I say? Brilliant._ Desmond whispered back furiously for it to _shut up shut up_ and said, with discomfort, avoiding Shaun's eyes again, "A few weeks."

Shaun sputtered. "A few _weeks_, Desmond? And you didn't think to _tell_ anyone? I assume they've been lasting more than thirty seconds, or else you wouldn't be picking up the language, correct?"

Desmond looked desperate. "Nothing's happened, it's usually when I'm about to go to sleep, or it'll be a dream."

"Usually?"

Desmond looked like he'd eaten something sour. "The first time it happened was when Lucy had me show her what I've learned from Ezio, just before Venice. I sort of . . . collapsed. After. After she'd left already."

"You _collapsed?_ Why didn't you say something? _Jesus_, Desmond." Shaun couldn't quite keep the concern from mingling with the anger in his voice, and he kicked himself mentally for it.

"I didn't want anyone to worry? I mean. I thought of saying something the next day, but then you gave me that line about being 'very professional,' and I thought it probably wasn't a big deal anyway. And it hasn't been. Really."

It bothered Shaun that Desmond remembered an insult from _weeks_ ago. He pushed his glasses up and rubbed his forehead. "Okay. So you've been having visions, or dreams, or whatever, of Ezio's life, for three weeks. Okay." When Desmond coughed, Shaun knew there was more, and he _probably_ wouldn't like it. "What."

"Uhhh," Desmond said, looking _vastly_ uncomfortable. "Not. Not just Ezio. Altair, too. That's what the first one was. Altair."

Shaun swore. "Bloody hell, Desmond. Let me guess, you magically know Arabic now, too."

Surprisingly, Desmond smirked a little and replied in Arabic, something unknown that made Shaun suspicious by virtue of the smug look on the other's face. He didn't want to know what he said, he _didn't_, he wouldn't ask because he _knew_ that's what he wanted and Shaun would be _damned _if he gave in to such a transparent maneuver. Jealousy tickled at the back of his mind and he paused and examined that feeling, frowning. Well. _That_ could be fixed. He cleared his throat.

"I'm really quite brilliant, you know, Desmond," he said, interested in how a strangely frustrated frown flickered across his face. "Which makes this situation somewhat unfair. It's not fair because, despite how brilliant I may be," and that frown again, _very_ interesting, "you now know more languages now than I do. I am sure you can see how this is a problem for someone of my keen intellect."

Desmond looked at him uncomprehendingly, shaking his head a little. "I don't . . ."

"So, I propose a bargain. You can teach me," oh, that rankled a little, didn't it? Being taught a language by _Desmond_ of all people. He pushed that aside. "You can teach me Italian, and maybe Arabic assuming I don't kill you first, and in return I won't tell Lucy about your little episodes."

Desmond's jaw had dropped as soon as Shaun had uttered the word "bargain," then closed, then dropped again a little at the conclusion of the offer. "Why…?"

"Well, you, I am sure, don't want to tell her, otherwise you would have already. Why, I don't really care, but I can keep an eye on you or whatever now that _I_ know, and that should be good enough. Right?" Shaun raised his eyebrow at a decidedly flabbergasted Desmond, who blinked a few times, considering, then stuck out his hand and nodded. They shook on it, and Desmond leaned back onto his palms, giving Shaun a speculative look.

"Don't you want to know what I said?"

Yes. "No."

Desmond paused, then smirked again. "You sure this isn't just some elaborate excuse to spend more time with me?"

Yes. No. Maybe. "Don't be ridiculous." Shaun fixed his gaze on his abandoned book. He swore to _god_ that he would get past that third page. Someday.

"And I bet you're not sorry at _all_ for being a dick, right?"

_Shit._ "Of course not."

_Fuck._


	11. Chapter 11

_A/N: And this might be my least favorite chapter. Lost a bit of steam while writing it. Wording feels a bit clunky at times. So it goes. _

_I always enjoy me a little bit of drabbly AltMal, though. They're just too adorable._

_ONWARD. See you Friday._

* * *

Desmond left Shaun behind in the warehouse when he started rattling off resources he would need to get his hands on in order to really, _effectively_ utilize Desmond's language acquisition, clearly compiling mental notes that he would later write out by hand. While grateful for Shaun's reticence and the bargain (really, blackmail) that assured it, Desmond remained wary of prolonged exposure to the man; much like the sun, or radiation, Desmond had a feeling it could have some very dangerous side-effects. That Shaun had sensed Desmond before he had come anywhere near entering his field of vision while Desmond had been practicing stealth with some success, and that Shaun had navigated the crates more or less one-handed, carrying that book as he was, spoke volumes for Shaun's ability as an Assassin-ability Desmond may have doubted before, assuming the swagger and sharpness were due to some kind of insecurity Shaun had, like he was compensating for some lack.

Desmond had been very _painfully_ wrong on that point, which meant there was some _other_ reason Shaun hated Desmond (unless he really just enjoyed being a_ tremendous_ prick), and that was unsettling. He felt like there was something _very_ important he was missing in the equation, and if he could just figure it out, maybe that damn voice would shut up about how brilliant Shaun was, and it would stop saying things like _doesn't he remind you of someone?_ and _wouldn't you like to get to know him better?_ and then Desmond wouldn't feel like ripping his hair out whenever Shaun was around, wouldn't feel like he had to flirt with Lucy in defiance of that insistent nagging.

Desmond _liked_ Shaun. He could tell that sly little voice to _shut it_ all he liked, but in the end the fact remained that he was attracted to Shaun. It must have been part of some sort of latent self-destructive tendencies, he figured, considering at any moment Shaun seemed liable to be a mere heartbeat away from choking the life out of Desmond, and no matter how often Desmond thought that maybe, _finally_ he had managed to crack that icy exterior, Shaun managed to snap back with a vicious recoil, leaving Desmond wondering if he had made any progress at all, made him wonder whether he was just wasting his time, setting himself up for fall after fall. Despite how unlikely it seemed that he would get _anywhere_ in his endeavors, he still teased and joked as though Shaun _did_ care, as though persistence alone could win him points, gain Shaun's affections, though he admittedly had _absolutely_ no clue what those affections would be like.

There were things he hadn't told Shaun about the bleeding effect, of course, about the visions and dreams he'd been having, that halted him in his steps and haunted his nights, depriving him of restful sleep. If Shaun ever asked . . . well. Desmond shrugged internally as he stepped into the Animus room briefly to assure Rebecca and Lucy that both he and Shaun were alive, they hadn't strangled each other, and no one needed to go to the infirmary, then stepped out again to wander aimlessly. He figured he could deflect, if pressed, as he always had when anyone would get curious about his life, his past; he could turn them aside and change the subject with ease. Still, he really did _not_ want to lie to Shaun, or tell half-truths; he had done enough of that already and something about Shaun made him want to be _honest_. Full disclosure, however, felt even more like a betrayal of his ancestors' private lives, and too much like a personal confession.

The first dream of Altair and Malik together had shocked Desmond awake, forcing him upright, uncomfortably warm and sweating and more than a little aroused. Altair kept such a close guard on his emotions, was so tied to _duty_ and _redemption_ and proving himself that Desmond in _no_ way saw it coming until those emotions suddenly erupted forth, and he and Malik were fighting/not fighting, teeth, tongues, lips and hands all out of context because these things never had any kind of sequential narrative; Desmond had to piece it together himself and it didn't always make sense but after a while Desmond realized that, while it may have been _Desmond's_ first time seeing them together, it was by no means _their_ first experience.

When Desmond did dream of that initial encounter, reached through slow realizations and mutual understandings, he was struck by how remarkably, unexpectedly tender it was, how careful and exploratory, with gentle hands and soft words. No, what Desmond first saw was part of a game the two Assassins played, to see who would cave first; a game that _apparently_ Altair did not mind losing. It was the way Malik would crane his neck slightly when examining a document, the barest traces of collar bones peeking out from under coarse robes, or how he would twirl a quill idly in his fingers, or the slow, lazy closing of lids over tired eyes as the one-armed man leaned away from the counter in his bureau, the faint trickle of water from the fountain granting them the illusion of tranquility that set off the explosion within him, propelled him toward Malik, who would laugh indulgently in his victory. It was a mystery to Altair what caused Malik to give in to his desires, what made his resolve crumble, he knew only that the man had near-infinite patience-hardly surprising, considering he _didn't_ try to kill Altair after Solomon's Temple, and had found it in him to leave all of that behind; so when Malik was the one to capitulate, it was the rarest blessing.

Desmond felt guilty, being privy to these intimate moments-he had no place there, behind Altair's eyes, feeling affection not his own for a man he had never known, and never would know. It also made him painfully jealous; voyeurism could only be _so_ satisfying.

Desmond realized he'd managed to pace his way back into the warehouse after wandering aimlessly from room to room, lost in thought, and wished (not for the first time) he had something _productive_ to do. He wondered if Shaun would kill him if he went back to roaming the crates and rafters, practicing his free-running; anything to escape this infuriating idleness.

~x~x~

When the language lessons began, it very quickly became evident that Desmond was a _terrible _teacher, and Shaun had to seize control in order for anything to get accomplished, while Desmond was more than happy to relinquish whatever power he held in that regard, feeling largely clueless about the whole affair-what did he know about noun phrases, tenses, and genitive . . . whatevers that Shaun seemed to think were so important? So their nightly sessions ended up consisting primarily of Shaun, surrounded by notebooks, note cards, and an Italian-to-English dictionary, peppering Desmond with questions on the particulars as he filled page after page with notes on grammar and pronunciation and vocabulary, while Desmond watched, bemused, kicking back in his chair and propping his feet up on the coffee table in the few square inches not dominated by Shaun's learning materials.

While they by no means were discreet about the whole affair, they were nevertheless momentarily flummoxed when Lucy stumbled upon them one evening and demanded to know what they were up to, her voice registering shock, no doubt due to their close proximity and surprising lack of bloodshed when frankly, what was surprising was that she hadn't come upon them _sooner_. Desmond was glad his back was to her so she could not see the dread on his face and the pleading look he gave Shaun to _dear god_ not expose him to her, tell her _anything_, just please, not the _truth_.

So he should not have been offended when Shaun let out a trademark long-suffering sigh, explaining to Lucy that they were, the _both_ of them, learning Italian to make dealing with Ezio's memories a little simpler. That part was fine, that didn't bother Desmond in the least; it was the dirty look Shaun gave him compounded with an amending, "Well, really, _I_ am learning Italian. Desmond's _just_ a bit too thick to learn it on his own, so I assume when I've got it down I'll have to teach him," that really set off Desmond's sense of self-righteous outrage.

When Lucy clicked her tongue at the pair of them and walked away, apparently buying Shaun's story, Desmond leaned forward in his chair and hissed, "Real nice, Hastings. You are full of so much shit, you know that?"

Shaun just laughed and told him in halting Italian to just relax, because his explanation was more plausible than any alternative. Desmond snorted and replied that Shaun could kindly go fuck himself, but he couldn't help the smile that tugged at the corners of his mouth at the rare sound of Shaun's laughter, deciding he'd suffer far worse if it meant he could hear that more often.


	12. Chapter 12

_A/N: Don't kill me. I promise, promise, promise, swear on my life, that ShaunDes will happen. These things take time. And drama. And unnecessary complications. Natch._

_SEE YOU TUESDAY, BITCHES. (ilu)_

* * *

Sometimes Shaun wondered if Desmond was actually _flirting_ with him, wondered if he was letting himself get carried away listening to the Italian flowing sensuously off his tongue, wondered if he really was so god damned desperate that even _Desmond_ seemed like good company. Rebecca seemed to want nothing more than to spend her spare time with Lucy, and he figured she was long overdue a change in companions; no doubt his company was a bit strained after so many years. He knew he was sour, dour, and generally unfriendly, which made Desmond's persistence all the more intriguing, and possibly appealing. It didn't hurt that Desmond appeared to be openly impressed with Shaun's rapid study of the language, effectively stroking Shaun's ego. He'd gone beyond the need for notebooks and note cards for the most part, and did his best to converse with Desmond in Ezio's native tongue, relying on Desmond's knowledge to fill in whatever gaps remained.

For all his many intellectual talents, however, he was a lousy cook, and the too-soupy mess of tomato and soggy noodle that was _supposed_ to be lasagna gave testimony to his failure as a culinary artist. He wished he wasn't so hungry, that he hadn't even bothered, had just let Desmond order a fucking pizza or something. But _no_, he had argued that they couldn't risk driving out to pick it up, and couldn't risk delivery, so Desmond had thrown up his hands and told him to fucking _make_ something then, damn it, _Christ_, if he was going to be so damn difficult about it, while Lucy and Rebecca just watched them bicker, eating peanut butter and jelly sandwiches.

So he had. It had taken far too long and it looked disgusting, but it was something, and at least it _smelled_ the way it was meant to. He hoped.

"I think the girls may have had the right idea," he moaned dramatically, prodding the mess swimming on his plate with his fork, his Italian coming out heavily accented because at that moment he could not be _arsed_ to even _try_ to get it right.

"Hm, it's not that bad," Desmond mumbled around a sloppy mouthful, smirking a little when Shaun gave him a look of unqualified disgust, then shrugged, swallowing. "What? At least it's edible."

"Lots of things are edible, Desmond. That doesn't make it palatable." A growl escaped his stomach, a loud complaint that had him digging into his food despite his objections; surprisingly, it was more bland than anything, and maybe the noodles were almost sickeningly slimy, but like Desmond had said, it was edible.

"I wonder if Leonardo was a good cook," Shaun mused, then washed his depressing dinner down with a mouthful of some cheap, equally uninteresting and barely-palatable beer, eyebrow shooting up when Desmond choked.

When he managed to clear his throat, Desmond gave a little helpless smile and said, "He cooked for Ezio a few times, you know."

Shaun perked up. "Oh? And how was it?"

A thoughtful expression came over Desmond's face, then cleared. "Heh, a bit like this, believe it or not. Maybe it's something about you geniuses, huh?" He snorted a little before Shaun could comment on that. "So, we get to talk about Leonardo tonight?"

Surprised, Shaun asked, "What do you mean?"

"I dunno," Desmond shrugged. "Just, almost every time we talk you ask about someone different. First it was La Volpe, then Antonio, then Paola, then Teodora. . ." He shrugged again, and once more Shaun was struck by the things Desmond remembered.

"Well, I suppose so, then."

Desmond leaned back in his chair, pushing his cleared plate away. "He's Ezio's closest friend, I can probably tell you a few things."

After a glance at his own half-finished lasagna, Shaun did the same. "Well, how does Ezio feel about him?"

Desmond stared at him a moment, and Shaun couldn't quite pick out the expression that struggled to make itself known on his face before he raised his eyebrows and said, "Ezio probably trusts him more than anyone else. Best friends, you know."

Shaun felt as though he was missing something, that Desmond was withholding information but was pretty sure if he pressed, Desmond would either clam up or evade the question as he so _annoyingly_ tended to do when uncomfortable. He tried another avenue of inquiry. "Is it true that he's celibate?"

"I-I don't know." Desmond seemed truly taken aback by the question, as though he had never even considered that; Shaun must have forgotten to mention it in the database. "He's never mentioned it, and he's never really had any other guy friends around, at least that Ezio knew about, not really." He frowned a little at that, then said, "He could have been, I guess."

Shaun hummed, considering a few things, such as Desmond's apparent reluctance to discuss the matter, and the answer that did nothing to clear up that little mystery. Shaun personally doubted it, but until he had evidence, his suspicions were worthless. Not that he could _do_ anything with those suspicions were they given a solid foundation, but as a matter of academic integrity, he thought it important nonetheless.

"Leonardo _might_ be celibate, but Ezio is _definitely_ a bit of a womanizer, yeah?" Now, that startled look on Desmond's face at the change of topic was almost _endearing_, if exaggerated, though it could also have been the abrupt switch to English that caught Desmond off guard, as Shaun was bloody tired of tripping over his own words.

"W- What makes you say that?"

"Oh, honestly Desmond, don't be so thick, it's not becoming. It was more or less a rhetorical question, I suppose, considering how obvious the answer is."

Desmond looked strangely amused. "You think so, huh?"

"I'm going to pretend you didn't ask that. The man _clearly_ got around." With a roll of his eyes, Shaun waved his hand somewhat derisively at Desmond. "You're probably the same way, though. It would explain you not noticing the _glaringly obvious_."

"You think I'm the same as Ezio?" Desmond managed to choke out through a very sudden fit of laughter that Shaun thought was _entirely_ unwarranted.

Affronted for no good reason but the sneaking suspicion that he was being laughed at, Shaun snapped, "It's not that much of a stretch, considering how you flirt with Lucy and Rebecca. Being a bartender must have been just one roll in the hay after another for you." All right, so perhaps he was being _somewhat_ facetious, because Desmond had a _great_ laugh and the grumpier he seemed to get about the matter, the harder Desmond laughed.

"Not . . . not as much as you'd think, really," Desmond said between laughs, much to Shaun's everlasting skepticism. Seeing the look on his face, Desmond said, "No, seriously, unless I was planning on moving like, the next day, it didn't happen."

Shaun shook his head. "Those poor women," he said, and Desmond was laughing again, and Shaun was _not_ delighted by his ability to inspire such a reaction. He was _not_.

Then Desmond got a sly look in his eye and asked, "Well, what about _you_?"

"What _about_ me?" Shaun responded, with no small amount of contempt; he couldn't _possibly_ be compared to someone so cavalier as Ezio or Desmond. He had _standards_.

"Well," Desmond said again, drawing out the word, and grinning, "that accent is pretty hot. You could probably get anyone you wanted."

All Shaun could do for a moment was gape before embarrassed heat flooded his face, and he sputtered indignantly, "Oh, thank you _so_ much for exoticizing me, Desmond, that is _very_ classy."

Still grinning, Desmond stood and walked to the kitchen door, ruffling Shaun's hair on the way. "You're pretty cute when you blush, too, Hastings."

"Are- are you _flirting_ with me?" Shaun exclaimed, ducking away from Desmond's hand, twisting in his chair to see Desmond lean against the door jamb, looking _unnecessarily_ mysterious.

"You said yourself I'm just like Ezio, what do _you_ think?" Shaun didn't realize he'd been left to take care of the dishes until Desmond sauntered off, so, swearing (_bloody wanker_) and glowering, he began to clear the table, setting the plates in the sink with just enough force to be noisy, effectively communicating his irritation.

"Whoa, what's got _your_ panties in a twist?" Shaun jumped a little, then peered over his shoulder to see Rebecca in the doorway, leaning just the way Desmond had been just a few minutes ago, and Shaun forced his thoughts away from _that_ because he couldn't handle it if Rebecca saw him _blushing_.

"You do that on purpose, don't you?" Shaun asked, turning the water on.

"Do what?"

"Sneak up on me."

While he soaped up a dishrag, Rebecca came to stand next to him, back against the counter. She grinned at him. "Nah, you're just getting soft. Need help?"

He waved a soapy hand at one of the dry towels in a heap on the counter, then passed a now-clean plate to her. While she dried, he muttered, "I am _not_ getting soft. And my panties aren't in a _twist_," and he scowled at that phrase, "Just annoyed. Desmond left me with _this_ whole mess to take care of, swanning off to do whatever it is he does."

"What's the deal with you two, anyway? Are you . . .?"

"Are we . . . what?"

"You know," she said, elbowing him in the side.

"Ow. And _no_. My god, no, we are most certainly _not_. That. At _all_." Of _course_ they weren't. He shook the soap and water off his hands after passing the casserole dish to Rebecca, having opted for pitching the leftovers rather than subjecting anyone else to that disappointment of a meal. Wiping his hands on his trousers, he thought a moment while she shrugged and dried. Since they were on the subject of _that_. . . "Actually, speaking of which, I've been meaning to ask you something."

"Yes." Her quick reply caught him off guard, as did the way she looked at him, drying her hands on the towel then setting it aside.

He shifted, turning to face her full-on, raising an eyebrow. "'Yes?' You don't even-"

"Oh, shut up, Hastings," and then she leaned in on tip-toe and pressed a gentle kiss to his lips.

"Ah. Right," Shaun said when she backed away, and he reached up to fuss with his glasses and, with any luck, hide the blush that had bloomed on his face once more.

"You're pretty cute when you blush," Rebecca teased. Shaun just groaned in embarrassed exasperation, because of _course_ she would say _that_, and now his blush had very little to do with that kiss at _all_.

Neither of them noticed when Desmond appeared in the doorway, then retreated once more with a closed expression masking his face.


	13. Chapter 13

_A/N: Fighting some serious writer's block these days. Shaun refuses to cooperate. Oh, well. Chapter 17 will be written one of these days._

_See you Friday._

* * *

Desmond wanted to kick himself. Really, he should have seen it coming, somehow, he should have seen _some_ kind of warning signs; maybe there had been meaningful glances exchanged and subtext running under their nitpicking, the back-and-forth banter that he'd been oblivious to. He snorted, lowering himself down to dangle his legs over the edge of the catwalk in the warehouse, propping his chin up on the railing. Earlier, when he'd dashed off so rudely after dinner, it had been to keep himself form saying anything stupid and _damaging_, to keep him from giving himself away because he couldn't quite bear it if Shaun knew that he enjoyed their evenings together far more than was entirely appropriate, given the general air of animosity coming from the other man. Apparently, it had been for the best, judging from the way Shaun and Rebecca had been carrying on, in a way that sparked a flame of intense jealousy and possessiveness that he didn't realize he _had_. Desmond had returned to help clean up, and to apologize for running off, but Rebecca had beaten him to it. And now he was sulking. He wanted to think all kinds of nasty things about her, but couldn't, could only sit stew in this newfound regret.

It occurred to him that the Italian "lessons," or whatever they were, would be far too awkward for him to continue, and he hoped Shaun would let him out of their "arrangement" without spilling the beans to Lucy; he didn't think he would, but part of Desmond was concerned Shaun might be capable of terrible cruelty beyond mere petty squabbles and insults, and he _desperately_ did not want to experience that potential side of the man. He really wasn't certain what compelled him to keep his experience with the bleeding effect secret, except that he _knew_ it would cause a great deal of concern and worry and drama and he just did _not _want to be fussed over like that. He wasn't even sure what they would do, and maybe that uncertainty was part of what kept him silent, fearing those unknown consequences. While he didn't, by _any_ means, want to end up like the nameless subject sixteen, he didn't _feel_ especially crazy, so it was probably okay. Probably. And since Shaun was willing to keep the secret for him at all, it mean that _he_ thought it probably wasn't a big deal either, so there was no reason to worry. He was _not_ rationalizing, he just _wasn't_, he really had nothing to worry about. Everything would be fine, and that slight unease in his gut would not convince him otherwise.

On the way back to the Animus room and his bed some time later, after he felt he had brooded enough and after he had taken a quick shower and brushed his teeth, he ran into Lucy, who looked confused and tired.

"Have you seen Rebecca?" She tugged at a loose strand of blond hair that had escaped her ponytail.

"Uh, check the kitchen. That's where I last saw her." Never mind the circumstances in which he last saw her; he did not want to dwell on that. "What's up?"

She flashed a quick smile at him, shaking her head. "Oh! Nothing. Just wondering, that's all."

He hummed, slightly skeptical and curious, but decided to leave well enough alone, since she generally didn't nose into his business. "Well, good luck finding her. I'm off to bed. 'Night, Lucy." He waved a little as he turned to continue his journey to his bed.

"Thanks. Good night, Des." He didn't hear her walk away but knew she must have because living with assassins again served as a reminder of just how quiet and cautious they all were at all times, always wary of discovery, even among allies. Maybe even especially around allies, considering what happened to Altair.

In bed, he didn't think about Shaun, or Rebecca, or Lucy, in those few moments before succumbing to exhaustion. He didn't think about the handful of one-night stands he'd had, or the girlfriend he abandoned at the farm. Instead, he thought about Ezio, pining away after Leonardo; except it _wasn't_ pining, because it wasn't devastating, but it wasn't a passing fancy either: Ezio _loved_ Leonardo, had for years and had taken up painting his targets when he completed his missions because painting was something Leonardo did, and by familiarizing himself with one, he could better understand the other. But not being with Leonardo wasn't any crushing heartbreak; Ezio knew it would be unfair to involve him more than he already had, and Desmond wondered how he could bear a friendship like that, with years of unrequited affection going unnoticed, and not crumble from that aching need. He had to admire Altair for owning up to his feelings as he had; for all that he was the most emotionally distant, he seemed the most comfortable with what he felt for Malik, and the most willing and best equipped to deal with whatever consequences might befall them. Ezio and Desmond? They were cowards by comparison, Desmond worst of all, for he was not, and _could _not be content with just friendship, and _certainly_ not for _years_, it was hard enough going weeks, _months_ without having this one thing he wanted.

Which is why he resolved to end his meetings with Shaun, even if it meant disclosing his visions to Lucy. He was not prepared to sit and pretend like Ezio; instead, he would just give up and focus solely on the Animus and training. He drifted off to sleep with that resolution in mind.

Lucy woke him early the next morning unintentionally, the quiet squeak of the wheels on her chair nudging him from yet another dream/memory, one of many that filled his nights, one after another in merciless, rapid succession that left him uncertain just how he managed to still be _Desmond_ and not some stranger who was not Altair, or Ezio, or Desmond but a confused combination of all three.

Sitting up and extricating his legs from the tangle of sheets and bedspreads was more effort than it would have been could he sleep soundly, but that luxury was increasingly rare, the more time he spent in the Animus. He stretched, then made a few tired, mumbling noises intended to be some sort of greeting but failed to reach quite that level of coherency.

Lucy cast a glance over her shoulder, eyeing him through the glass that separated them, looking as tired as he felt. "Morning, Desmond. Sleep well?"

He gave a non-committal grunt and lurched out of bed, then staggered against the partition until his light-headedness abated. When his head cleared, he grabbed fresh clothing from the small stack of folded laundry by the wall and walked sleepily from the room in search of the toilet to begin his morning wake-up ritual.

It wasn't until he splashed cold water from the bathroom sink over his face after relieving himself and getting properly dressed that he really jolted into consciousness and left those fragments of memory behind, the biting chill of the water sending a shock through his system, forcing a gasp from his lungs. Now, _now_, he was alert.

He was considering whether to skip breakfast or not when, on the way out of the bathroom, he spied Shaun shuffling into the kitchen, a sight that left him bereft of appetite. No, he was in no mood for breakfast, not this morning. Unconsciously, he raised a hand in a brief wave at Rebecca when they crossed paths, he on his way to the Animus room and she on her way to the bathroom. When he saw Lucy plugging away at her computer, he recalled their encounter and considered whether to tell her what he'd seen in the kitchen, whether he even wanted to accept it himself. He was still pacing and wrestling with himself when both Rebecca and Shaun strolled into the room and to their respective workstations, surreptitiously avoiding Desmond and Lucy's gazes.

"Becca, where'd you run off to last night? I thought we were going to watch a movie," Lucy asked, prompting a dark, sheepish blush to creep across Rebecca's face; Desmond suddenly felt tense, and he shot a look at the back of Shaun's head, a look that, as though sensing the glare, caused Shaun to hunch a little. Rebecca ran a hand through messy hair in discomfort.

"Sorry about that, Lucy, I got, ah, caught up with . . . something." Her eyes slid guiltily over to Shaun's side of the room, and suddenly all eyes were on him, though he very pointedly did _not_ turn around.

"Wha- _oh_. Um. Really?" Lucy looked at Desmond as though demanding an explanation, but he just shrugged helplessly, trying to feign indifference and tell himself they were _adults_, damn it, and it was something adults _did_, and it wasn't his business anyhow, especially since he had decided to bury all of that, push it aside in favor of more practical matters.

"Maybe," he started, voice hoarse (from weariness, he told himself), "Maybe we should just get started." They'd been taking it _excruciatingly_ slowly ever since the Animus had overheated, or whatever the malfunction had been that had put the system out of commission for a _week_; his suggestion was as practical as it was selfish.

"For once, I'm inclined to agree with Desmond. _Tempus fugit_." Shaun still didn't bother turning from his computer, and a stray image of his blush at the dinner table crossed Desmond's mind before he banished it entirely. He seated himself in the chair that would whisk him away to Renaissance Italy, finding the soft fabric of the chair almost comforting in its promise of an escape from reality. Within moments, he was mercifully dead to the world.


	14. Chapter 14

_A/N: Oh, Shaun. You are a cranky old asshole and I love you._

_I had a vague image for this scene in my head when I was still writing chapter two. Don't think I expected it to take fourteen chapters to get to it, though. _

_See you lot on Tuesday._

* * *

Thank god for the Animus.

While he couldn't be sure, Shaun had the sneaking suspicion that if he had turned around while Desmond was still awake, not only would he have had Rebecca and Lucy staring at him, but he would also have been confronted with a very unhappy glare from Desmond, the force of that glare tickling disagreeably at the hairs on his neck and wringing something like _guilt_ out of him, though he buried it angrily. As though any of this was his _fault_, as though any of this was some monumental catastrophe instead of something _normal_.

It wasn't as though he was some teenager, getting caught feeling up some other bloke's girl, or getting caught with his pants down by his bloody _parents_. His computer suffered the force of his scowling resentment, irritation scraping away at whatever post-coital contentment may have lingered into the morning.

_Christ_. He couldn't even get _laid_ without it turning into some fucking dramatic _school play_. Times like this, he wished the others would just crawl into a hole and _rot_ for overcomplicating matters. Whatever he had going with Rebecca now, and he had _no idea_ what to even make of _that_, it certainly wasn't all fairy tales and romance novels. It was _awkward_.

They hadn't fallen gracefully into each other's arms or any of that nonsense; it had been discomfited stops and starts, uncomfortably tangled limbs and a kind of half-hearted but determined lust that marked their encounter, and he was both surprised and oddly grateful when she _didn't_ steal off from his room after, save for a quick visit to the loo. She'd even given him a quick kiss on the _cheek_, of all bloody things, then slipped in between the sheets, making herself comfortable before falling asleep.

And _now_, the room was uncharacteristically muted; Lucy and Rebecca typically chatted to each other from behind their desks, their voices carrying over the comatose Desmond while he played through memories, blathering on and _on_ about topics Shaun _did not care about_, not even a _little_, and were _completely_ irrelevant to their goals. He'd snapped at them on more than one occasion to kindly _pipe down _because he was _sure_ the Templars would find their conversation to be _terribly_ threatening; they might all just expire from sheer boredom or perhaps from the overwhelming _inanity_ of it all. Rebecca had thrown a paperweight at him once, for that. Were it any other occasion, the silence would be more than welcome; now, however, it just grated further upon his nerves.

An alert popped up on his screen, indicating Lorenzo had assigned yet another _irrelevant_ assassination mission, which meant Shaun got to feed information into the system on the off-chance that Desmond actually _gave_ a toss about the enemies of the Medici, and might actually care to interrupt the memory in order to read the database entry.

_I love this job,_ Shaun had to remind himself. _I'm not killing anyone (directly), and I'm not at the bottom of a river. These are good things. _Still, the endless, useless repetition was getting to him.

"Christ, Lucy, I thought Ezio was supposed to be fighting Templars, not licking the boots of the Medici. He's been running these bloody assignments for _weeks_," he snapped. The video feed no longer had a place among the open windows on his computer screen; no matter how marvelously creative Ezio got in eliminating his targets, even _that_ lost its appeal, rapidly becoming old hat.

"What do you expect me to do about it, Shaun?"

"Fucking, I don't _know_, isn't the Animus supposed to only find _relevant_ memories?"

Rebecca bristled. "Leave it alone. Nothing's perfect."

"Oh, so you're finally admitting that, are you? Never thought I'd see the day." He felt maliciously satisfied when she reacted with outrage.

"Oh, go to hell, Shaun. You'd think getting laid would mellow you out, but nooo, of _course_ not. Asshole."

Now it was _his_turn to be outraged. Lucy broke in, however, saving him from saying something vicious and cruel that he would _surely_ have regretted later, once his temper cooled.

"Wow, okay, could you guys not do this now?" She rubbed her forehead, uncomfortable. "I hate to sound like Shaun, but we have work to do. You can have your lover's spat, or whatever it is, later."

A faint but urgent-sounding beeping tore Shaun's attention away from the two women glaring daggers at him. "Never mind that. What the hell is that noise?"

"What. . . oh, _no_." Lucy peered over her desk at Desmond, then back at her monitor. Her mouse clicked a few times, and she closed her eyes briefly. "Becca, see if you can pull him out. His vitals aren't looking so good."

Shaun pulled the video feed up; Ezio was running across the roofs of Venice-nothing new there. "It can't be _that_ bad," he scoffed.

"Would you rather he stayed in, so he could go insane, or _die?_" A hard stare accompanied Lucy's words as Rebecca scurried around the Animus, checking systems.

"I . . . no," Shaun conceded. Given the number of lives he carried on his shoulders already, he couldn't bear the added weight of Desmond's, not _now._

"Then shut up. Becca?" He scowled but obeyed; Lucy had a look about her that suggested she might just _make_ him if he wasn't careful.

Rebecca leaned against Lucy's desk with a sigh. "Can't do it, Luce. Sorry. The Animus has him locked in." She shrugged helplessly, eyeing Desmond. "His vitals aren't the only thing looking bad, though. Check it out, he's white as a sheet. It's kind of like when Ezio's family died." A note of worry colored her tone, even as she attempted to sound clinical, distant.

"I wonder what has Ezio so concerned," Shaun mused, watching as Ezio burst unceremoniously into Leonardo's workshop, apparently out of breath. Shaun popped his headphones in his ears and turned on the audio, and suddenly the sound of ragged breathing filled his ears, a bit too harsh even with the mad sprint across the city, considering how ridiculously fit the man was.

Ezio just stared at Leonardo's back, nothing out of place, as the artist leaned over a table set for three, pouring wine into the glasses, oblivious to Ezio's presence, despite the dramatic entrance. A strangled noise came from Ezio's throat, and Leonardo turned.

"Ah! Ezio! I didn't hear you come in. You have impeccable timing. Rosa said you would be along for dinner tonight, and even dropped off wine, a lovely vintage. I don't see her with you, did she say when she would be coming? I hope soon, everything is just about ready, and it would be a shame for it to get cold." His usual easy smile spread across his face as he set the bottle down and approached Ezio, who appeared to still be digesting Leonardo's effusive welcome.

"_Rosa?_" He finally croaked out, incomprehension warring with what looked to be relief on his face.

"Of course! She came by earlier this afternoon. You seem surprised, did she not tell you?" Leonardo placed a hand on Ezio's elbow and drew him into the workshop. Ezio halted their progress by drawing Leonardo into a crushing embrace that Leonardo gladly returned with a laugh.

"No," Ezio rasped out. "She did not tell me. She said you were to be arrested, for aiding an assassin, for aiding _me_. I did not expect to see you here."

"I don't _believe_ I am to be arrested, although the guards may still be on their way, I suppose," Leonardo said calmly, attempting to pull out of Ezio's grasp. Ezio loosened his hold but did not let go, and Leonardo leaned back to peer under the raised hood. "Ezio, what-?"

Eyes averted, Ezio said, "They would _hang_ you, Leonardo." His voice caught a little when he spoke the artists name.

"I am not without friends; perhaps I would have the fortune of rescue?" An eyebrow raised when Ezio's laugh came out, a short, harsh bark.

"That is not the point." He still refused to meet Leonardo's gaze (and Shaun wondered just what he was hiding).

"No? Ezio, my friend-"

Shaun's jaw dropped and Rebecca and Lucy gasped when Ezio tossed his hood back and planted a quick, deliberate, and _forceful_ kiss to Leonardo's lips, and then stepped back, finally releasing him.

Shaun pulled an earbud out and swiveled in his chair to ask, "Did-"

"Shh!" Rebecca hissed, eyes fixed on her screen, cutting through his question. Lucy gave him a glare that she seemed to be daring him to defy, so he sighed, replaced the earbud, and turned his gaze back to the feed, where Leonardo seemed to be considering Ezio in all of his embarrassed discomfort, fingers steepled and pressed to his lips.

Finally, he laughed. "We will not be needing this third place setting after all, I don't think. Come, I have prepared a simple meal for us." He took Ezio by the hand, twining their fingers, and pulled until he followed to the table, where Leonardo released his hand and set about removing the extra plate and glass while Ezio merely watched, confusion written across his features.

"But . . . the guards . . ." He gestured toward the door, as though intending to return to the street to stand vigilant in Leonardo's defense.

"Mmm, yes, I don't think they will be coming. Sit, Ezio, please. Isn't it remarkable," he said when Ezio gestured to the door again, opening his mouth to protest. "Rosa never _did_ say she intended to be here for dinner, only that _you_ would." He disappeared into the kitchen with the empty plate and glass, reemerging shortly with a large bowl filled with pasta; he huffed impatiently when he saw that Ezio was still standing, hesitant. After placing the bowl on the table, Leonardo took a seat. "I fully intend to enjoy my dinner, Ezio, and I would be most pleased if you would join me."

Uncertainty was in every motion, every glance as Ezio sat, tense. "How can you be sure the guards will not come?"

Leonardo served them both before answering. "I cannot, of course. But I have a good feeling."

Ezio released a patient sigh, leaning back into his chair. "Tell me more about this _feeling_, then." (_As though he hadn't just kissed Leonardo, hadn't raced across Venice to rescue him,_ Shaun thought.)

"Ah, well, it occurs to me that we have been set up by your lovely Rosa. Though, I cannot say I mind." His eyes twinkled over his wine glass as he took a sip.

"Set up. . ." Ezio considered this, then swore. "I think I will kill her. Surely, I would be justified."

Leonardo gave him a sharp, disapproving look. "At least allow me to _thank_ her before you do," he responded, reproach in his voice.

Ezio caught the reprimand. "My apologies, Leonardo."

"Perhaps I shall have to find a way for you to make it up to me," he said, with a warm gaze that caused a smirk to unfold on Ezio's lips, a slight flush adorning his cheeks.

"Perhaps you should."

Shaun swallowed at the look they shared, feeling not a little bitter as he came to a number of realizations at once. First, that Desmond had either been _less_ than forthcoming about Ezio's feelings toward Leonardo (and he recalled how Desmond had stuttered and stared when asked, and he kicked himself for not picking up on that clue), or Desmond truly was a bloody idiot for not noticing it; second, that Ezio actually _was _a little bit more than just a lady killer, which meant Shaun had been _wrong_ and _that_ was a tiny bit embarrassing; and third, Shaun was _jealous_.

Events of the night previous notwithstanding, Shaun found he couldn't lay claim to the kind of relationship that Ezio and Leonardo shared, rooted in some deep emotion and connection. He wondered how long Ezio had harbored those feelings, and he admired Rosa for her deviousness, though he had been under the impression that she and Ezio were something of an item. Strange.

He turned back to Lucy when it appeared no further startling revelations were to occur, only increased inebriation and flirtatiousness, snapping, "Is it safe to pull him out now, or do we have to watch Ezio make bedroom eyes at Leonardo for the next hour?"

"Shaun. . ." Lucy sighed, checking her computer. "Looks good. Wake him up, Becca."

Shaun half-expected Desmond to be mortified when he came to, blustering and spluttering and making a scene in response to what was to Shaun, Lucy, and Rebecca an unexpected turn of events, and he armed himself with a neat array of scathing remarks. Instead, when Desmond sat up he looked groggy, but otherwise guarded, and perhaps confused, as though he expected them to _continue_ watching Ezio fawn over Leonardo.

"What's up?"

"Your vitals were going haywire for a while there. It's too dangerous to keep you in any longer. Maybe we'll try again later, but with the way the Animus has been running lately, I don't want to push our luck," Lucy said.

"Which means this has likely been yet another complete waste of a day, over before it even started," Shaun muttered, not missing the almost-glare Desmond sent him as he turned back to his computer.

"At least you have other things you can do," Desmond grumbled, stretching.

"There really isn't much call for mixed drinks around here, is there? Solid career choice, that."

A sound like an annoyed hiss came from someone behind Shaun, but he couldn't place the source, and really, it could have been any one of them; he hadn't spent much time this morning ingratiating himself with them by _any_ stretch of the imagination.

"Come on, Desmond. I'll spar with you. That should pass some time, anyway," Lucy offered. The two of them left, and Shaun sighed, placing his head in his hands. Sometimes, being an utter _ass_ could be so exhausting. He checked his watch and groaned: barely past eleven. He hoped the other teams would need his help, and that he could pass the time _productively_ instead of twiddling his thumbs, listening to Rebecca mutter to herself while she ran systems and security checks. It was going to be a long day.


	15. Chapter 15

_A/N: In which every single person is pissed off. Wankers, the lot of them._

_This chapter's theme song is "I Can't Decide" by Scissor Sisters. Trust me on this._

_See you Friday!_

* * *

Rebecca had been absolutely right. Getting laid did absolutely _nothing_ to tame Shaun's temper; if anything, his tongue got sharper, his fuse shorter, to the point that the others maintained a certain safe radius around him and generally avoided speaking altogether—if they whispered, he snapped that the incessant hissing was driving him mad, but if they spoke in normal tones, he complained even more about getting a bloody headache from their mindless drivel.

It was so quiet, and he was so focused on his computer and the new research project he assigned himself to keep himself busy and hopefully benefit the Brotherhood, that he could almost imagine they weren't fighting a war, could imagine he was actually a professor of history as he had intended before his curiosity threatened to make a corpse out of him. Could pretend that he wasn't an Assassin.

_I don't hate my job,_ he thought. _I'm just being dramatic. Oh, woe is me._ It certainly did not help that he'd come to the realization that he and Rebecca were, of all bloody things, _fuck buddies_, a term that for all its accuracy made him cringe, and when he thought about _that_ he wanted to step in front of traffic or maybe turn himself in to the Templars because it was so very _humiliating_ to be what he scorned, to fall prey to what he had mocked Desmond for (and while the man pled innocence, Shaun had his doubts).

Life was very rapidly spinning wildly out of control, in all of the tiny, seemingly-insignificant ways that had not nearly the grand scale of _free will_ and everything they were fighting for, but nevertheless tripped him up. Even _Desmond_ was throwing him off; he had felt sure, once they had worked out a sort of regular routine, that he would have all the access to Desmond's knowledge of Italian _and_ his experience with/in the past he could possibly want, but even _he_ dodged out on Shaun; Desmond had approached him the evening after that memorable dinner between Leonardo and Ezio, stating that not _only_ did he think Shaun had more or less the hang of the language, but he also felt he needed to spend more time _training_, so could the just please call it good? And with that request was the hidden plea for Shaun to keep his secret, even though he no longer had any obligation to, as well as the smallest flicker of fear that Shaun would deny him out of spite. That fear was cleared away when Shaun bit out a short, clipped, _Fine_, despite his skepticism concerning Desmond's reasons.

It might have been better if he and Rebecca acted like _lovers_, but they _didn't,_ they barely changed the way the interacted outside the walls of their bedrooms, except Shaun got meaner with _everyone_, and Rebecca retaliated in turn when previously she might have let his venom go unnoticed. It only got worse because he was beginning to realize he _missed_ Desmond, and maybe learning Italian hadn't been the point of any of it, not at _all_.

So it _hurt_ when he finally noticed the systematic absence of Rebecca and Lucy whenever Desmond came out of the Animus, when Rebecca revealed to him that they'd been taking it in turns to spar with Desmond for almost a week, and furthermore that Desmond didn't _want_ to spar with Shaun, because he didn't _trust_ him not to fight dirty, to try to kill him or at least do some serious damage, and Shaun was so _offended _he swore at Rebecca and earned himself one of those looks that told him she was seriously doubting his sanity, because it was absurd that he hadn't noticed sooner, and even more preposterous that he should be taking offence.

Not only that, but if Shaun even so much as stepped _foot_ in the warehouse while Desmond was training, he would receive a short, thorny, _You're distracting,_ coupled with a painfully polite request for him to leave. Lucy, just like Rebecca, looked at him like he had lost his mind when he complained about it, and was largely unsympathetic. He supposed it was a bit of cruel irony, really, seeing as up until quite recently he had given Desmond much the same treatment, only far less politely. When she asked him why he _cared_ so much, all he could do was splutter incoherently and tell her Desmond was being obnoxious and childish, to which she gave him a look that bordered on _pity_, as though she knew something he didn't.

But, Desmond didn't trust him, didn't want to be _near_ him for whatever reason, which was odd because they'd been getting on so _well_, to the point that Shaun had looked forward to when their work on the Animus was over, when he'd finished analyzing the fresh memories and could take some time to _enjoy_ himself, which he almost invariably did when he spent time with Desmond.

And _now_, Shaun didn't know _what the hell_ to do, because he and Rebecca kept sleeping together even though he didn't really _care_, and he wasn't sure she did either, and he wasn't even convinced it was better than nothing at all because it felt so _wrong_. His personal life was so very annoyingly tied to his professional life that it was _distracting_; he couldn't separate one from the other because he _lived_ with these people, so he was increasingly impressed with himself that he didn't _fuck up_ as shit continued to hit the fan.

Like today. Lucy was talking to him and he only kept his temper in check at the breach of silence because she was saying something about _two teams_ and _haven't heard from them_, telling him to check up on that, see if he could track them down because she was starting to worry.

He knew which teams she meant; yesterday, they sent word that they had a good feeling about their current location, that they might have finally pinpointed the exact location of one of those damned vague points on the globe the Apple showed Altair. It had seemed so easy, initially; they would travel to this or that point and grab the Pieces of Eden before the Templars could, but of course it _wasn't_ simple, because they didn't actually have exact _coordinates_ or anything, so there was a lot more footwork, a lot more putting ears to the ground, weeding out relevant information, and a _lot_ more waiting. So, those two teams that hadn't checked in . . . Shaun feared the worst.

An hour spent retracing their tracks and attempting to make contact proved entirely fruitless, and so it with a heavy heart and a peculiar feeling of muted detachment that Shaun had to tell Lucy that those Assassins were . . . lost.

The day went by in a kind of blur after he saw that trace of despair in Lucy's face flicker and fade, replaced by her usual business-like mask of pure professionalism that he had to admire, even when the world seemed so _distant_. He mechanically responded to the messages sent by other teams in the field, and shuffled information into the database, and he felt so _tired_ when the quiet thought struck him that they hadn't any of them been their usual selves lately; Lucy was more reserved, Rebecca more irritable, Desmond was just . . . _different_, and even Shaun's usual ire had taken a sharp and cruel turn, and he just couldn't figure out _why_, because with everything feeling so _wrong_ all the time he couldn't _focus_, couldn't solve this fucking mystery that was probably painfully obvious.

He only partially snapped out of that murky detachment when Shaun overheard Desmond say something remarkably _stupid_, even for him, in conversation to Rebecca, and it triggered something harsh and bitter and _angry_ within him.

"I'm sorry, but did you honestly just call us 'good guys,' Desmond? What do you think this is, a bloody Disney movie?" Shaun made sure his voice was as scathing as possible as he turned to pin Desmond with a contemptuous glare.

"Better than the Templars, anyway," Desmond said, returning Shaun's glare defiantly.

"You think so, do you? Are you familiar with what an Assassin does, Desmond? Or did you get caught up in the romantic, lovey bits of the Animus, where your ancestors swoon madly over other men? Because you may have forgotten that Assassins _kill_ people; you know, that thing where people _die_ because of _us_?" He didn't remember it happening, but at some point he got to his feet, and there was a strange, dark gleam in Desmond's eyes when Shaun approached slowly.

"I bet you know _all_ about that, don't you, Hastings," Desmond said with sarcasm. Rebecca shook her head furiously, as though she could see where this was going and knew it was going to be _bad_, and tried to keep Desmond from saying anything more, saying _Just let it go, Desmond_ and _Leave it alone_, to no avail. He shook off the restraining hand she placed on his arm and took a step toward Shaun. "I'm sure you're _so_ familiar with death, from behind that desk of yours."

"Oh, you _tosser!_ You bloody fucking _git,_ you have _no_ idea, haven't the _faintest_ bloody _clue!_" And somehow, at some point while his temper _exploded_ he had grabbed Desmond by the front of his stupid fucking shirt and was shouting in his stupid fucking sneering face, and only Lucy (and Rebecca must have run to get her from the kitchen because suddenly she was there with a knife in her hand) coming between them wielding that paring knife kept him from dashing Desmond's stupid fucking _head_ against Rebecca's desk.

Lucy pointed the knife at the pair of them, furious. "Get the hell out of here and settle whatever the hell is going on between you in the _warehouse_ if you have to. You will _not_ damage any of this equipment," and Shaun figured that wasn't really her concern, that she was more worried about the alarming dynamics that had suddenly formed, and that combined with the knife in his face convinced him to storm out of the room and walk to the warehouse with Desmond hot on his heels, unwilling to risk further angering this frankly frightening side of Lucy few had occasion to see.

What Shaun wanted to do was vent his anger against a training dummy, because he wasn't exactly sure how an actual _fight_ with Desmond would turn out, not when the man had been training with Lucy and Rebecca, but Desmond had other ideas.

"Come on, Hastings, or are you just playing at Assassin, just some egghead trying to be _tough_?" Desmond's voice was harsh behind him, and Shaun gritted his teeth, trying to reign in his temper.

"You're a fucking idiot, Miles," Shaun said, turning in time to catch a glimpse of Desmond's fist coming at him, too fast for him to avoid before it impacted on the side of face, snapping his head back and forcing him to stagger back a few paces. He raised a hand to his face, then, tasting blood, felt the inside of his cheek, grimacing at the blood on his fingertips. He swore. "You bloody _bastard_, you _would_ go for the face, wouldn't you?"

"Come on, Hastings," Desmond said again, sounding more arrogant, arms open as though inviting Shaun to take a shot. Shaun merely stood, waiting, ready, feeling that cold distance fall over him again, letting him ignore the throbbing pain in his face, and watched Desmond with hard, calculating eyes.

Desmond swung again, and even as Shaun brought up his left arm to turn the fist aside (that had, predictably, been intended for his face again), he decided that the girls were going _far_ too easy on Desmond when they sparred with him. Before Desmond could follow through with another attack, Shaun brought his fist in hard to his solar plexus, all his fucking _guilt_ and _anger_ and _bitterness _and _loneliness_ and _resentment _driving it home, taking no satisfaction in the way Desmond's eyes widened in shock, or the way his mouth went slack at the sudden realization that he couldn't draw in any _air_. To make sure this would be the end of it, Shaun jerked his knee _up_ into Desmond's groin, followed by a sharp kick to the inside of his knee.

_It shouldn't have been so easy,_ Shaun thought as Desmond crumpled to the floor, falling hard onto the cement. Harsh, painfully rasping gasps echoed off the crates as Desmond struggled for air and curled up against the unexpected pain, and Shaun crouched down in front of him.

"When you get up," he said coldly, "ask Rebecca about the sixteen who were before you. Ask her about the people who tried to rescue you and failed. Then come back to me, if you still think I know nothing of death."

It had been three painfully simple moves, carrying the weight of Shaun's conscience, that toppled the man he pretended was responsible, forcing the emotions out in an artificial catharsis that left him feeling empty and lifeless.

"You can go to hell, Miles," he said, rising, and casting a final disparaging glance at the man lying on the cold floor of the warehouse, he walked away.


	16. Chapter 16

_A/N: I dunno about this chapter. Feels clunky. Good enough to post, though!_

_Lucky for you guys I managed to finish writing Chapter 17, so you get an update on Tuesday rather than my tears and ceaseless apologies for any kind of delay. I do it for you, loves. All for you._

_Speaking of Tuesday, HEY see you then. Ciao._

* * *

Curled up on the cold cement floor, still fighting the aftershocks of Shaun's _fist_ in his midriff like an iron weight, and his knee in his groin, still trying to suck in desperate gasps of air while what Shaun said tumbled around in his confused brain, Desmond admitted to himself that picking a fight with Shaun hadn't been the best of ideas.

He'd known better than to provoke Shaun, than to initiate a physical confrontation when there had been a number of signs indicating it would not end well, especially since Desmond's own combat experience didn't extend to the real world, no matter how his body insisted otherwise. He'd done it anyway, and look where it got him. And maybe it was that part of him that was still reeling, incredulous that _Shaun_ had brought him down and with such apparent ease that kept him from making any sense of Shaun's parting message, delivered with an unsettling, resigned finality.

When he'd felt his temper _snap_ for the first time in _years_ and _saw_ Shaun's erupt in turn, somewhere under the rush of hot anger it occurred to him that his relentless focus on training and the Animus was in fact worse than pining away; shutting out his emotions was doing more damage than accepting them, and if _Altair_ could figure that out, then Desmond _certainly_ should have.

Those words and their meaning continued to elude him until after he gathered himself up from the floor and limped back to the Animus room, where only a slightly bemused Rebecca remained in attendance at her desk. Gingerly, he perched himself on the edge of the Animus while she eyes him appraisingly, apparently surprised at the lack of surface damage.

"All right, Desmond?"

He winced and touched his solar plexus lightly. "Mostly. Did, uh, did Shaun come back here?"

The corner of her mouth twitched, almost a frown. "Yeah, just for a minute before going to ice his face and apologize to Lucy. You gave him a nasty bruise, but at least _he_ doesn't look like he got steamrolled."

"He hits _hard_," Desmond said ruefully, and she allowed a tight smile.

"I'd congratulate you on getting a hit in, but really, we can't afford this kind of crap," she said, her mouth _definitely_ tugging into a frown this time. "You fucked up. I'm not saying Shaun's totally innocent, but you shouldn't have said what you did."

"About that . . ." he said, avoiding her gaze. "He said I should ask you about it."

"Hmm, what, specifically?"

He mumbled, "About . . . about the others before me. And the assassins who were stopped at Abstergo."

"He did?" Blinking, she leaned back in her chair, surprised. "Huh. Okay. Well, here goes."

A lot of things made perfect sense to Desmond once Rebecca spelled it out for him in a way they'd all managed to avoid until now, and he kind of definitely wished he had known a lot _sooner_; he felt his own lingering frustration dissipate in light of this new information, only to have guilt take its place.

Suddenly, he had answers to questions like _why is Shaun such a dick all the time_, and _why is Shaun such a tight ass_, and _what the hell did I ever do to him?_ And now Desmond actually _had_ just done something to him, very deliberately and with every intention of causing pain. He'd been out for blood, letting his pent up frustration and hurt and disappointment and _wanting_ get the better of him, exacerbated by the knowledge that Shaun was going to bed with Rebecca each night.

"I'm kind of surprised _you_ aren't more angry at me," Desmond said.

Rebecca raised her eyebrows. "Why's that?"

He rubbed the back of his neck awkwardly. "I mean . . . I guess I kind of hit your boyfriend?"

"Ha! Uh, actually, not really anymore. If he ever was in the first place. It was kind of weird," she said dryly.

Desmond had a feeling he _really_ didn't want to know what _that_ meant, and his distaste must have shown on his face because she snorted and shook her head at him.

"Not like _that_, pervert. I dunno, it just wasn't right. Anyway, that's what he came in here for after knocking you flat."

"So, not anymore, huh?" And that shouldn't have made a nervous warmth pool in his gut, not when Shaun had seemed so lifeless when he told Desmond to _go to hell_, not when Desmond had ripped open that sore wound of guilt and then proceeded to spit in his face, but it was a welcome relief that he couldn't hide.

Faint horror crept up Desmond's spine as he saw the realization dawn on Rebecca's face, and he knew he had just given himself away to her; he wondered if he could somehow escape, flee the Assassins and Templars both once more before everything went to shit.

Rebecca rested her chin on the heel of her palm and smirked a little, knowingly. "So _that's_ what's going on. Makes sense, I guess."

"Oh, god." His face was _burning_, he could feel that terrible sick heat in his cheeks, and he just _knew_ that one of his ancestors must have angered some tremendous cosmic forces for Desmond to suffer through such embarrassment and mortification. "You can't say anything."

"Can't I?" That smirk turned into a wide, wicked grin, and Desmond quelled his urge to throttle her. She was enjoying this, the _sadist_.

"Oh, _god_," he groaned, hiding his face behind his hands. "_Please_, Rebecca. The guy already hates me."

She hummed. "Fine, fine. Spoilsport." When he lowered his hands, she was giving him a strange look. He raised his eyebrows questioningly at her and she shrugged. "I don't think he hates you as much as you think."

"If he didn't hate you before, Desmond, he might be working on it now," Lucy said as she walked in, catching the very tail end of their conversation. Hand on hip, she stopped at the end of the Animus and fixed an annoyed glare on Desmond. "What the hell were you thinking?"

Wincing, he closed his eyes, trying to think of how to respond beyond a pithy _sorry_. Rebecca interjected on his behalf. "Easy, Lucy. He knows he fucked up."

"We _really_ need to work together," Lucy said tiredly, raising a hand to rub her forehead. "Especially with the teams we lost last night."

Desmond stared. "Wait. _What?_"

"Guess I forgot to mention that," Rebecca murmured.

Lucy frowned. "We lost contact with them sometime yesterday. Shaun tried following through, but. . ." She shook her head.

Desmond hadn't thought it possible to feel like even _more_ of an asshole than he already did, but it seemed like today was a day for one startling revelation after another. God damn it. He chose one _hell_ of a day to pick the worst fight imaginable.

"Is there anything we can do?" God, he needed to do _something_, needed some way to make this all better.

"They're gone." She shook her head again, the distance in her voice more for her own benefit than Desmond's, a quiet assertion of self-control. "These things happen. Not every mission can be a success, but it's still hard when we lose someone." She sighed raggedly. "God, _two teams_. . ." and now she looked a little overwhelmed, but before Desmond could offer his support, his condolences, any kind words at all, Rebecca stood and hastened to Lucy's side.

"Hey, I know it's hard, but we can still do this. We _have_ to do this." She put an arm around Lucy's shoulders and jerked her head at Desmond in the direction of the doorway. While Rebecca led Lucy to the couch, Desmond slipped out and headed for the kitchen, on the off-chance that Shaun might still be there, and for a lack of anywhere else to go. Of course, he _wasn't_ there, because he wouldn't have lingered where it was likely Desmond could turn up and make a bad day worse, Desmond thought bitterly.

In fact, beyond his usual post at his desk that Desmond no longer had the courage to approach, no matter how long Shaun stayed there or how late he worked, Shaun seemed to vanish entirely, giving Desmond no opportunity to apologize or do much of anything at all except watch him from a distance.

Dark circles bloomed under Shaun's eyes after a few days, and for all the pleading looks Desmond shot at Rebecca, all she could do was shrug helplessly, while Lucy shook her head in sympathy.

It seemed that, regardless of his plea, Rebecca had wasted little time disclosing her discovery to Lucy, as he discovered while sparring with her.

Lucy had wiped the sweat from her eyes on her forearm and said, "Whatever your reasons, it's good we started doing this. Especially since Shaun kicked your ass." She smirked.

Ignoring the jibe, he took a pull from his bottle of water and leaned against the cool brick of the wall. "What do you mean, whatever my reasons?"

"I just figured it had something to do with him. You know. Considering." The knowing look in her eyes made him want to hit the wall in frustration.

"Am I _that_ fucking obvious? Jesus, does _he_ know, too? Everyone else does!"

"No! I mean, I don't think so. I only know because Rebecca told me."

"She _told_ you? Why—" Desmond paused when he saw the trace hints of a flush in her cheeks that he suspected had little to do with their workout, even as she put on a good show of looking nonchalant. "You guys are pretty close, huh?"

She gave him a strange look. "What do you mean?"

Shrugging, he said, "You seem like really good friends. I guess it makes sense if she told you."

"Oh, yeah. Best friends." He didn't miss the irony in her tone, and he hid his smile with another pull of water. "Don't worry. If you don't want him to know, I won't tell him."

"Thanks, Lucy." Relief insinuated itself into his voice unbidden, and he hid it with a cough and a change of subject. "Another movie night with Rebecca tonight?"

She'd hummed an affirmative, the pink in her cheeks darkening, and he decided he'd forgive Rebecca, even though it was getting absurd, with his secrets spread out between everyone.

Shaun had every right to rat him out, and the fact that he _hadn't_ gave him some small hope, though he worried he'd slip during training, distracted by the mirages that appeared at random and with increasing frequency, despite the careful measures they'd taken with him in the Animus. He could only hope he wouldn't collapse again, and especially not around the others.

Desmond didn't want to have to worry about whether _today_ Shaun would finally give him away to Lucy or Rebecca; he wanted to be able to sit down with him and just _talk_, the way they had before, when Shaun was learning Italian, only now he wanted it without any pretences, just the pleasure of his company.

He started asking Rebecca about what Shaun liked to do for fun, what music he liked, what films, anything to get him an in with the taciturn man, but the only answer she had was that he liked to read, and he liked history, as though _that_ wasn't obvious. Desmond wondered how in the hell she'd managed to live with Shaun for _seven years_ and know practically nothing about him.

So he sneaked into Shaun's room.

Part of him kept hissing at him that this was a _very bad idea, Desmond, you idiot_, but he chose to ignore that, ignore his taut nerves, his fear of being discovered (and he tried to come up with a suitable excuse should Shaun suddenly appear, but his mind blanked on the matter entirely), and focus on finding _something _he could use.

Shaun's room was _clean_. No, it was _immaculate_. Where his desk in the main room held books, notes, pictures, and a worn-looking chess set, here everything was bereft of nearly anything identifiably _Shaun_, with the exception of a small shelf on the practically pocket-sized desk with a handful of books, neatly arranged. Save for one, they looked like _heavy_ reading, all thick bindings and incomprehensible titles that Desmond assumed referred to obscure historical _things_.

He vaguely recognized the binding on the one that looked even remotely tolerable, recalling the book Shaun had been reading two months ago when he'd coerced Desmond into those lessons. Checking the bookmark revealed Shaun hadn't gotten very far, even though so much time had passed; replacing the book on the shelf, Desmond mulled it over, an idea brewing.

He didn't exactly have many options, so he shrugged and backed carefully out of the room, eyes scanning to make sure he hadn't left any trace of his presence. Nervousness pooling in his stomach, he went to find Rebecca and Lucy to put his plan into action.


	17. Chapter 17

_A/N: Here you are, lovies._

_I am hoping Ch. 18 will be up right on schedule, but I'm going out of town on Thursday and will be busy for a few days, so we'll have to see. If I'm late with the update, I apologize profusely in advance. _

_Possibly see you Friday, if all goes well._

* * *

If Shaun hadn't been so very _tired_ he would have felt the palpable nervousness that seemed to increase over the span of a few days, would have noticed that his stacks of books had shifted seemingly of their own accord, and would have noticed Desmond's rather conspicuous absence from the main room when he ought to have been in the Animus.

As it was, Shaun just went through the motions of normal functionality, focusing his cognitive efforts on his research into new tactical and combat techniques, trying to make up for what he knew must have been a terrible oversight on his part, a crucial failure to impart appropriate information to those who needed it and were now _dead_ because of him, _again_.

He had buried it under the ever-pressing excuse of _work_, had turned to defensive abuse but with Desmond's outburst and their subsequent altercation Shaun was finding it hard to escape that grief and guilt when he wasn't in front of his computer. Nights were spent staring blankly at the ceiling, his wall, the underside of his comforter when he buried his head under the covers, trying to block out everything his head wanted to tell him was _so vitally important_ but in reality got him _nowhere_.

He wouldn't even _bother_ going to bed if he hadn't fallen asleep at his computer once, just once, only to wake up in the _very_ early morning with Desmond's blanket over his shoulders and Desmond sprawled out under his sheet on the bed across the room, apparently fast asleep; but Shaun had also thought he'd been out for _hours_ while he stayed up, fervently trying to puzzle together some sense out of the glyphs Subject Sixteen planted in the Animus, so he'd thrown the blanket over the partition and stolen from the room as silently as he knew how, deciding to make an early breakfast.

How in the world Sixteen managed to hack the Animus and leave his cryptic messages was so far beyond Shaun's reckoning that he did his best to ignore it, even though part of him, the part of him that let curiosity run rampant and get him into trouble, desperately wanted to know every little detail despite the horrifying implications contained within those glyphs, hinting at Sixteen's deteriorated mental state.

Worry managed to insinuate itself into Shaun's mind as well, because it felt like sinister foreshadowing, with Sixteen's broken voice cracking through the speakers almost a threat of what could happen to Desmond, and part of him didn't want to care about that, wanted to _hate_ Desmond because he _deserved_ it, damn it, he was a terrible wanker.

Except Shaun didn't hate Desmond, _couldn't_, because he _knew_ it wasn't his fault, he hadn't done anything wrong beyond shoot his fucking mouth off when he didn't know any better in the first place, and couldn't have known because Shaun had just taken to laying into him without justification or explanation, because he was such a fucking _coward_ he didn't want to deal with actually _confronting_ these emotions.

For all the good that hiding had done him in the end, though, as day by day he felt wearier, more detached, and less able to tell himself he wanted nothing more to do with _Desmond_ and all of his nonsense. He felt less-equipped than he used to, less able to draw conclusions, make connections and it drove him _mad_, not feeling _himself_, not even feeling like being terribly clever or sarcastic because it was so much _effort_, and he just wanted to lay down and wait for everything to go away.

So, he couldn't be blamed for not realizing that they hadn't been putting Desmond in the Animus for a few days because the man was a little terrified of what would happen when Shaun caught up with the rest of them and figured out how Desmond felt; Desmond wasn't sure if Shaun would maybe go ahead and actually kill him instead of just knocking the wind out of him this time and that anxiety had him jerking in and out of synchronicity to the point that Rebecca and Lucy just gave up and let him seek sanctuary in the warehouse until he calmed, or until Shaun hunted him down, demanding answers (arguably, a frightening outcome).

Desmond wasn't in the room when Shaun finally noticed the incongruity in his haphazard arrangement of texts, only noticing something was out-of-place when the book he held in his hand wasn't the one he remembered being on top.

His first reaction was one of pure annoyance, that someone had actually _interfered_ with his belongings, with everything that helped him keep things going in his little world, but then his curiosity won him over (as it so often managed to do) when he realized he didn't recognize the cover at all.

He spun around in his chair, intrigue winning out over _exhaustion_. "Rebecca, what the hell is this?"

She looked up from her desk at him, like maybe this was a trick question and he'd snap at her for giving the wrong answer. "A . . . book?"

He wasn't sure if it was relief that flickered on her face when he gave an annoyed sigh and rolled his eyes, but it certainly was surprise that he had spoken at all, the first time in _days_, and his voice was a little rough but still conveyed every bit of his typical ire when he snapped, "_Thank_ you, Rebecca, I had _no_ idea. Frightfully glad _that_ little mystery's been cleared up."

"Well, how should I know? You have a ton of books over there; they all look the same to me." The corner of her mouth turned up a little in a smile which he ignored because it was hardly appropriate.

"Are you sure it isn't one of yours?"

Shaun swiveled to give Lucy a hard look that she shrugged off, and he noticed with irritation that _she_ was smiling as well. "You two. You're up to something, I can tell."

Lucy rolled her eyes. "Paranoid."

"Hello, _assassin_. We're supposed to be paranoid." He scowled when Lucy merely shrugged again. "And where the hell is Miles? Shouldn't we be churning out more memories?"

More shrugs. He was starting to hate the gesture. "He's been having trouble staying in the Animus lately, so he's taking a break from it for now."

That sounded _really_ bad, and Shaun clamped down on the unease that stirred in his gut at the thought that the trouble could be from the bleeding effect, but Lucy and Rebecca wouldn't know about that so of _course _they could be casual about it, which meant _he_ had to be casual, so he carefully set the book aside on his desk and returned to work, though his eyes continued to stray from the screen to rest on the blank hardbound cover.

It was like a challenge for him, to _not_ open to the title page to uncover the mystery behind the text, testing the reserves of his self-control, and he could feel it almost itching, the need to _know_, an insistent tickle that he was determined to resist.

Eventually, he pushed himself away from his computer to find food in the kitchen, an automatic need his body urged him to satisfy though he barely felt the hunger. On the way, he was disgusted to come upon a lone pair of boxers abandoned in the middle of the hallway, plainly lost on a return trip from the wash, judging from the dryer sheet that clung to the black fabric.

Despite the implied cleanliness, Shaun made a small noise of distaste as he bent down to hook his finger under the band in an admittedly fastidious gesture, and walked back to the Animus room to deposit the offending article on Desmond's bed. He paused, however, when a suspicious rectangular object on the nightstand caught his eye, bearing a remarkable resemblance to the one on his desk, the one he had forced himself to ignore the entire day.

It was too much.

Shaun leaned on his right arm against the glass partition and slid the book from the table, turning it over a few times in his hands and wondering _why_ in the hell there wasn't a bloody title on the cover. Finally, he slid his fingers between cover and page and cracked it open, something in the back of his mind taking pleasure in the slight creak that sounded from the binding, as well as the smoothness of the pages under his fingertips, fresh and heretofore untouched.

His brow furrowed at the name printed in unnecessarily florid script on the title page, then winced when he heard footsteps and the harsh clearing of a throat, feeling like he'd been caught reading someone's diary. The wince turned into a scowl when he glanced over his shoulder and saw _who_ was behind him.

"What are you doing over here, Shaun?" Shaun figured it was to Desmond's credit that he sounded genuinely curious and perplexed and not angry or irritated that Shaun had invaded his space, especially considering if he_had_ sounded upset, Shaun might have had to work up the energy to unleash a volley of insults and further alienate the man.

Book in hand, he gestured at the boxers on the bedspread and leaned back on both elbows against the partition as Desmond uneasily mimicked his posture against the window, noting how his eyes widened slightly and followed the motion of the book. "Found those in the hallway." He shook the book at Desmond a little, and demanded, "Tell me what _this_ is about."

Desmond shrugged and said, "I dunno, you've read more of it than I have."

Shaun's eyebrows shot up, and he couldn't be sure if Desmond was actually being _clever_ or a complete _moron_. "I beg your pardon?"

"Oh." Desmond rubbed the back of his head, nervous. "Look, you hate me, right? I just wanted to . . . I don't know, apologize, I guess. For what it's worth."

"And you're apologizing with _Sherlock Holmes_? I already have this book, Desmond." There was so much about this situation Shaun simply _did not understand_, and what Desmond said next did _nothing_ to alleviate his confusion.

"Well, yeah, I know that, but this is in Italian."

"I. . . _What_?"

"I just thought you might like it." Desmond was mumbling now, eyes shifting about as though looking for an escape from Shaun's incessant querying and sounding almost miserably uncomfortable.

That answer did _nothing_ to clear up Shaun's baffled state of mind, but he left it alone, and asked, "Then why do _you_ have a copy? You don't exactly strike me as one for the books, Desmond."

"I'm not an idiot, you know. I do know _how_ to read." Bitterness infiltrated Desmond's tone, indignant at Shaun's frequent implications of illiteracy and idiocy.

Shaun smirked. "I've seen no evidence to support that statement."

"Oh, come on, Shaun," Desmond said, giving him an exasperated look, "you write fucking _novels_ for the database, don't give me that."

"You. . . You don't actually _read_ all that, do you?"

"Well, yeah. I mean, it's useful stuff. What, you think I just ignore it? Man, you must think I'm the worst asshole in the world." The disgust in Desmond's voice nearly made Shaun cringe.

"Well. . ." The word came out sounding more like he was agreeing with Desmond rather than trying to figure out a way to address that statement without coming out and telling him that even though Desmond was a stupid git, Shaun was actually rather _fond_ of him, and he cringed to himself when Desmond frowned, misinterpreting his intent.

"Great. Listen, I'm sorry. I thought maybe we could read together, but I'll just leave you alone." Desmond shifted uneasily and gave him a look that said he wanted nothing more for this conversation to be _over_, but Shaun was having none of that. His curiosity _had_ him; it had won, and he would see this through to the very bloody end.

"Together? Desmond, what in the world. . . Why would you want to read with me?"

"You don't have to, okay? Shit." And Desmond was blushing, why was he blushing? For some reason it made Shaun think of when they weren't quite so antipathetic toward each other, that brief span of time when he'd suspected Desmond of _flirting. . ._

Something jerked within him, a twist in his stomach, a tug in his chest, and he almost wanted to laugh. He felt his own blush rise, much to his shame, as the pieces fell into place. "I don't." He coughed. "I don't _actually_ hate you."

Desmond gave him a long look, and then said, sounding skeptical, "You don't."

"Ah, no." He found himself pretending to suddenly be terribly interested in the book he held in his hands, thumbs rubbing the cover in sudden nervousness.

"I wouldn't blame you if you did," Desmond said, quietly. Shaun peered up at him over his glasses, accepting this concession but still aware that Desmond was deflecting, avoiding the real issue at hand.

"Well, I _don't_, as I've said, so would you care to stop avoiding my question, or shall I just leave you to it?" While he had a fairly good idea of just what Desmond had in mind, he required confirmation, though he wasn't _nearly_ curious or patient enough to wait around for Desmond to get over his trust issues if it meant he'd have to _beg_ for a straight answer.

Silence was his only answer, so he gave a tight nod and straightened, sliding the book back onto the night stand. He raised an eyebrow when he caught the strangled sigh Desmond released and the flush that had darkened on his face while he seemed to struggle to find the right words to say.

Impatient, Shaun shook his head and said, "If it's that painful, Desmond, then I probably don't want to know anyway." Trying to ignore the disappointment he felt, he waved a dismissive hand at Desmond and turned to walk away.

Desmond exhaled sharply. "Yeah. Probably not."

Shaun left him standing there, feeling let down despite the apology. When he made his way into the kitchen, he started feeling the hunger pangs a bit more acutely, so he decided to fry up an egg with some toast and tried to tune everything out and just focus on the crackling of the egg in the pan, the smell and the steam rising as the edges of the egg white started to crisp. He fair jumped out of his skin when a chair scraped noisily against the floor, jolting him from his trance.

"Jesus bloody fucking _Christ_, what _is_ it with you people sneaking up on me?" _I am definitely losing my touch_, Shaun thought distractedly as he glared over his shoulder at Desmond, who laughed nervously.

"Thought you were supposed to be an assassin, Shaun," Desmond said, propping his chin up on his palm, elbow resting on the table. "Always alert, right?"

"Oh, shut the hell up, Desmond," Shaun muttered, flipping his egg over sullenly.

Desmond stayed quiet until Shaun turned the stove off and slid his egg onto the toast on his plate, then said, "Hey, can I talk to you for a sec?"

It felt nice and comfortably familiar, sitting across from Desmond at the table again, as though a bitter animosity hadn't sprung up between them, as though they'd spent every night in the past couple weeks as they'd done before things turned sour, and Shaun waved a casual hand of assent while he chewed his food.

"I like you," Desmond said, and Shaun choked a little, bringing his hand up to cover his mouth. Desmond got him a glass of water, and after he took a few calming sips, Shaun pushed his glasses up his nose and stared at Desmond.

"I'm sorry, _what?_"

Though he looked like he wanted to run, Desmond stayed put, feigning casualness as he leaned back in his chair. "I, uh, I really enjoy spending time with you?" His voice betrayed his nervous uncertainty, but he barreled on. "And, I don't know. That's why, with the book and all. I _liked_ when we'd hang out like that. So."

Having only just reached that conclusion from that _blush_ and the way Desmond used to carry on, it was still a shock to _hear_ it. The yolk was running all over his plate, Shaun noticed absently, staring down at it. He blinked a few times, then looked over his glasses up at Desmond. "You aren't having me on, are you? Bit of a laugh at my expense? Because I _will_ kill you, if you are. Animus be damned."

An uncertain smile struggled to find a place on Desmond's lips. "Hah, no. I mean it. Yeah. I don't . . . I don't suppose you . . .?"

Shaun decided to play with him a bit, feeling unnecessarily cruel. "Don't suppose I . . . what, Desmond? Don't suppose I feel the same way, pining away after you like some schoolgirl?"

He felt guilty when disappointment, followed by sickened mortification, washed across Desmond's face. "You're right, sorry. Shit. _Shit_."

Shaun had to grab at him, lurching out of his seat and around the table, when Desmond pushed his chair back, ready to make his retreat. "Wait, wait, Desmond, wait. I'm sorry, mate, that was a joke. Admittedly, in rather poor taste, considering."

Anger flashed in Desmond's eyes. "So, what, you're saying you _do_? Make up your fucking mind."

He let his hand drop away from Desmond's shirt, then raised it again to pass through his hair. "It's . . . possible." Heat rose in his cheeks once more, and he avoided Desmond's eyes, embarrassed.

"You. . . You fucking _asshole_." Shaun yelped when Desmond's fist connected with his arm painfully, and again when Desmond pushed him against the wall, chairs clattering around their legs. He was silent, however, when Desmond kissed him roughly, the hands gripping his shoulders holding him firmly in place, too pleasantly startled to do anything but reciprocate, his hands finding their way to Desmond's waist, grasping the fabric there loosely while Desmond's mouth moved against his.

They were both a little breathless when Desmond pulled back, looking so annoyingly smug and pleased with himself that Shaun had to roll his eyes, bringing his hand up between them to adjust his glasses. He was smiling, however, when he said, "Apology accepted. You _git._"


	18. Chapter 18

_A/N: Oh god, I am so sorry for taking so long with this update. I don't have any kind of reasonable excuse, just lazy sluggishness (and letting myself get distracted by the kink meme). Please forgive me! Especially sorry since this chapter is kind of terrible. The next one is better, I promise. orz_

_**Just as a heads-up:** I am almost positive this story will end at chapter 21. I'll try to get my ass in gear and let this finish out on schedule, but if it doesn't . . . well, you won't have to suffer through inconsistent updates for too long. Chapter 19 will be up on time; let's just hope 20 and 21 are as well._

_See you Friday, darlings._

* * *

Desmond wanted to pump his fist in victory, or maybe just kiss Shaun again (and again and again), but Shaun managed to duck away from his advances, twisting free with a half-smile so he could get back to his now-soggy toast and egg, tsk-ing occasionally when he looked up from his plate only to see how Desmond continued to grin, leaning comfortably back in his chair.

"So, does this mean you _do_ want to read that book? With me, I mean?" Desmond dared now to look hopeful, because suddenly things seemed to be looking up and he and a good feeling. He should have done this _ages _ago.

"No," Shaun said, before sipping his water, while Desmond slumped in his chair, deflated.

"Oh. Okay." Desmond tried not to sound too put out. "Let me guess: you're too busy, right?" Okay, so he was doing a terrible job at not sounding bitter, but he felt somewhat justified, after all the effort he put into this, and all the stress it had caused him.

Shaking his head, Shaun said, "Well, not right away, at least. I _am_ a bit busy, especially lately, but that's not the issue. I haven't exactly been keeping up with my studies, as it were."

Desmond snorted. "Yeah, like it'd take you more than two days to re-learn it anyway. You can't fool me, genius."

"I appreciate the flattery, Desmond, but the point still stands. It isn't as though I was _fluent_ when you cut our meetings short."

"You knew enough, you could have figured it out on your own," Desmond protested, shifting in his chair. There had been a little bit of bitterness in Shaun's tone that Desmond resented, particularly considering _why_ he'd stopped those meetings in the first place.

"Well, maybe I didn't bloody well _want_ to do it on my own," Shaun snapped, flushing a bit. "Came out of nowhere, that did. Why did you want to stop in the first place?"

"Aw, come on, Shaun, you know why." Desmond found it exceptionally hard to believe that Shaun wouldn't have made the obvious connections, and really didn't feel like making another confession, this one a bit more embarrassing than the last.

"Actually, I _don't_, else I wouldn't have asked. Enlighten me."

Ridiculous. Shaun was far too clever to not have figured it out already. "You know. Because of you and Rebecca." The look Shaun gave him was surprising, because it meant he _hadn't_ worked that out, which was absurd. "I saw you guys kissing and . . . figured I'd be in your way. Or something." That was, of course, a _lie_, and Shaun seemed to know it.

"You know, Desmond, I am rather used to having to fight for my answers; it comes with having to do a lot of research. I do _not_, however, enjoy having to do the same with _people_, particularly those who have designs on being my boyfriend." Shaun glared at Desmond, a stern look from behind his glasses that made Desmond feel like a kid who had just disappointed his father.

Guiltily, he said, "Okay, so I was jealous, and I didn't want to think about you with her and not me, all right?" He sighed. "I'm not like Ezio, I couldn't just sit there and be your _friend_."

Smiling indulgently, Shaun said, "Ah, honesty is so _refreshing_. I could grow to like it."

"Oh, fuck you, Shaun."

"Tsk tsk, I'm not sure we're far enough along in our relationship for that sort of talk."

"Right, because you waited so long with Rebecca," Desmond said dryly, rolling his eyes and proud he didn't sound even a little resentful.

"Ignoring the fact that we've lived together for over seven years and have known each other longer, that decision didn't exactly pan out so well in the end, as you may recall." Shaun snorted, pushing a soggy crust around his plate.

Raising his eyebrows, Desmond said, "She did say it was awkward."

"You have no idea." Shaun rubbed his forehead and closed his eyes briefly, looking pained. "Really, you haven't a clue. I'd rather not have a repeat performance, if you don't mind."

Desmond hummed. "If you say so. I wasn't kidding, though. That accent is _really_ hot."

"Oh, shut up, Miles," and Desmond endured the sharp tones and withering glances because Shaun was blushing again, and damn if it didn't feel good to get the last word in for a change.

If he thought, however, that somehow a kiss and some banter would cure Shaun of that dark, somber fog, Desmond was sadly mistaken; true, Shaun spoke again to them all, and let Desmond sit nearby while he worked, making idle conversation when Rebecca and Lucy were around and refreshing Shaun's memory of Italian when they weren't, but those dark circles never went away, and Shaun wouldn't let Desmond show much beyond the barest of affections; in truth, that first kiss was really the _only_ kiss of note—Shaun always managed to evade him before Desmond could pull him close.

Desmond didn't pry. He contented himself with anything he could get from Shaun, chilling out in that unsettlingly familiar chair and ottoman near Shaun's desk. When he noticed it for the first time (wondering how he'd missed it in the first place) he'd done a double-take; he was slightly worried that it was more of the bleeding effect manifesting in more bizarre ways. Shaun had noticed his apprehension and correctly guessed the cause, assuring Desmond that the chair was real with an explanation of how he's obtained it from an antiques dealer, though not without the usual jab at Desmond's powers of observation, softened with a small, tired smile.

Occasionally, Shaun would catch Desmond trailing off mid-sentence, eyes following shadowy figures which seemed increasingly more corporeal, and would wait, lips drawn into a thin, worried line, or would reach over and squeeze Desmond's knee, subtly, ineffectually trying to bring him back into the present. Futile though the gesture may have been, since the mirages would only vanish in their own time, Desmond appreciated the effort.

He never told Shaun outright about that part, but he didn't have to; it was the one negative aspect of the bleeding effect the others all knew about and accepted as reasonable—though part of him felt that they all must be _insane_ if any kind of hallucinations could be considered _acceptable_. Shaun seemed to share his concern, and in his worry gave Desmond tiny tokens of affection that he otherwise held in reserve.

More often than not, their conversations turned out to be decidedly one-sided, and when Lucy and Rebecca retired for the night (conspicuously _together_) Desmond let himself unwind from his day in the Animus, stretched out and limp in what he came to consider to be _his_ chair by Shaun's desk, telling Shaun about his Italian ancestor.

"And, I don't know how Leonardo puts up with him, it doesn't make any sense," Desmond was saying. "The guy is-_was_ a pacifist, right?" Shaun made a quiet noise of affirmation and Desmond went on, a bit sleepily. "Sometimes Ezio can tell Leo's unhappy, so he gets extra sappy to make up for it. But I don't know, Leo isn't really innocent either, right? He made all those weapons, anyway. I don't get it." He paused, in case Shaun had anything to add, then continued when all he heard was more typing. "Oh, god, but they can be _so_ sappy. I guess Altair wasn't any better, though."

"With Maria, right? Hard to imagine them being sentimental." Shaun reached for a book, speaking over his shoulder.

Coughing, Desmond said, "A little, but I actually meant with Malik."

Shaun stopped thumbing through his book and turned to stare at Desmond. "Are you _serious_?"

"Yes?" The glare Shaun gave Desmond told of unfathomable suffering if he discovered Desmond was fucking with him.

"Malik. Altair, and Malik. Malik, you-killed-my-brother-and-ruined-my-life-Malik."

"That's what I said."

Clearly, Shaun hadn't expected to discover that both of Desmond's exceptionally notable ancestors enjoyed the company of men, and he sat there, eyes fixed on Desmond, for several moments. "Well," he said finally, returning to the text in his hand. "I never would have guessed. It certainly isn't in the memories. Er, the Abstergo sessions, at least." And the look he gave Desmond held the question of what _other_ memories he'd seen, his curiosity evident.

Desmond felt his face warm a little. True, not every memory was an endless slideshow of intimate moments, but that's where his thoughts went. "I think it's there if you look for it."

"Sorry, Desmond, but I don't go about trying to find homosexual subtext in all aspects of my life." Shaun smirked at him, and Desmond snorted.

"That's because you're so _gay_ it isn't even _subtext_ with you."

Lips twitched, almost grinning, and Shaun turned back to his computer. "Hm, and what does it say about you, I wonder, that you _did_ look for it?"

Stretching, Desmond let out a slightly pained sigh as continually-aching muscles protested against the movement. He closed his eyes and relaxed into the chair before replying. "That I'm desperate, I guess."

"Clearly," Shaun said with a certain amount of self-deprecation that made Desmond frown. Shaun continued, "Given your ancestors' penchant for men, I could almost think you were merely suffering from the bleeding effect in unexpected ways."

"Almost?"

"Just trying to give you a _little_ bit of credit," Shaun said mildly; he jumped when Desmond draped his arms over his shoulders and rested his chin atop Shaun's head, having risen from his chair upon realizing what time it was. "Desmond. . ."

"I know, I know." He kissed the top of Shaun's head. "It's late. Really late."

Shaun didn't stop typing, not that Desmond expected him to. "You're free to go to sleep whenever you like. Don't wait up on my account."

The typing did pause a moment when Desmond squeezed him in a tight hug. "Don't stay up too much longer," he said, knowing his words would go unheeded. He hesitated, then squeezed again before letting go. "Goodnight, Shaun."

Shaun murmured a response in kind, and Desmond retreated to his bed. He fell asleep that night, as he usually did, lulled into slumber by the sound of Shaun's fingers tapping on his keyboard.


	19. Chapter 19

_A/N: I wrote this chapter in May, before I'd even written chapter 14. It has been waiting a long time for me to fill in the gaps. The style of writing is different, but I don't care. I like it. It turns out my favorite chapters are the ones written completely out-of-sequence orz_

_I might not have a chapter for you next week on time, but. I will try to not be terrible. Like I said on Tuesday, this story is on its last legs anyway, so please be patient with me while I wrestle with the ending chapters._

_Thanks to my bro M. Monster for helping me reword a clumsy phrase down there. It is much better now. _

_I love you guys. See you when I see you._

* * *

Shaun knew the bleeding effect was more than dreams, skills, and languages for Desmond.

He could feel the change while leaning into Desmond's chest, relaxed in idle arms with hands that lightly traced patterns in the creases of his pants or attempted to twine with his fingers but were swatted away as Shaun turned the pages of the book in Italian translation he read aloud for the both of them, waiting for a correction of his pronunciation. It was in the evenings, after sessions in the Animus, that they would take to the common area of the Animus room and crack open their translated copies of _Sherlock Holmes._

They would start reading on the couch at opposite ends or maybe side by side with their own texts, alternating paragraphs, and at the end of each one Shaun would quick-translate back to English, to demonstrate his strengthening grasp of the language, subject to Desmond's inevitable approval.

They would _start_ with separate texts, but then Desmond would tug on his arm, pulling Shaun close enough to share just one, thighs touching, resting an arm on the couch behind him and looking over his shoulder, setting his copy aside; or Shaun would make some excuse, asking for Desmond to point something out to him in the text or help him with a translation, then lean in and just not pull back again, feeling simultaneously clever and foolish for engineering their closeness.

Eventually, both scenarios led to the pair of them sprawled on the couch together, and either way, Desmond enjoyed the way Shaun smelled of fresh laundry and somehow of old books, dry, worn pages, cracked leather covers and faded ink, a pleasantly musty scent that was unique to Shaun, and when Desmond told him so, while accidentally drifting off to sleep with Shaun still reading to him in his arms, Shaun snorted but was quietly pleased, and resolved to take Desmond to a used book store someday.

Shaun could feel it when the images came, for the fingers would cease their caresses and the breaths leaving the lungs beneath his back would become more cautious, more practiced, heartbeat quickening and muscles tensing. He never said anything about it, and Shaun never pressed, for the images would leave as quickly as they came, and then Desmond would relax, squeeze Shaun's thigh and lean his head back onto the arm of the couch as though relieved, then comment on the way Shaun had produced a vowel, dismissing by omission the ghosts of memories that had drifted in front of his eyes moments ago.

While they attempted to read through one story per night, frequently they found themselves drifting off to sleep midway through, the book slipping from Shaun's fingers when his eyelids slid closed of their own volition, jolting back into false alertness when the spine hit his gut. He would then jab Desmond with his elbow, who would grunt and blearily sit up as Shaun pushed himself, embarrassed, upright and away from the warm comfort of Desmond's body.

In the middle of their fourth story, they had not settled into one another yet and Desmond had removed himself to the kitchen to get them both something to snack on. When he was gone for several minutes longer than it should have taken to grab a bag of chips, Shaun grumpily bookmarked the page and made his way to the kitchen, tongue prepared to let fly with snide comments on Desmond's indecisiveness and general ineptitude. In the doorway, however, he paused, and watched Desmond open and shut cupboards and drawers, muttering under his breath in Italian with growing volume and frustration as it became clear he could not find what he wanted.

It was when the name rolled, lovingly despite his obvious distress, off his tongue that Shaun began to worry. He peered closely at Desmond, trying to determine any change in manner or movements, but could not discern any real abnormality in his posture, his stance, the way he reached for a cupboard or dipped his head to the side to avoid striking himself with the door, as Shaun had watched him do on any number of occasions, or the way he drummed his knuckles on the counter as though trying to decide where to look next for whatever he thought he'd lost.

All of this was familiar, but Desmond's apparent obliviousness to Shaun's presence, and the way he'd said that _name_, loosed something quiet and heavy in Shaun's chest, a seed of dread that had him thinking _please, please no_, because Lucy had told them what happened when people spent too much time in the Animus and he desperately did not want that for Desmond.

"Desmond, mate, what are you doing?" Shaun stepped forward, reached out and touched Desmond on the back, pressing his palm between the shoulder blades, trying to keep the concern and worry and fear and dread and anxiety from leaking into his voice, washing over his face, taking over his body, trying to stay calm because maybe Desmond was just an idiot and everything was fine.

Desmond looked over his shoulder slowly at Shaun, his brow furrowing, but gaze focused, seeing him clearly but nevertheless finding something out of place about his presence. Muscles twitched in his temples as he clenched his jaw slightly, turning and leaning against the counter, lowering his eyes to the floor. He raised his hand to his forehead and his face contorted just slightly more in his confusion before settling into a frown. Eyes looked up at Shaun from under that troubled brow, and the clarity in them did little to soothe Shaun's nerves.

"Shaun." It wasn't a question, but it still required confirmation, and roots emerged from that seed in Shaun's chest, but he said nothing, just stared hard at the man in front of him, taking in the bare feet, new jeans and partially undone grey button-up shirt with the sleeves rolled up, something in his mind needing the very modern details like zippers to combat the fear of the distant past. He waited for Desmond to say something, anything more, to explain what was going on, but Desmond just met his stare with that same troubled gaze and finally Shaun slid next to him and placed his hand between those shoulder blades once more, contact that seemed to partially soothe whatever ailed Desmond, who let out a slow, steady breath and looked at the floor again.

Shaun's voice was leaden, and he didn't mean it to be but the roots had extended into his heart and were slowly exploring his arteries and so he could not keep that dread from coloring his voice as he asked, again, "What were you doing?"

"I was looking for something. It." One corner of Desmond's mouth turned down as he tried to articulate, tilting his head back to rest against the cupboard behind. "I know it isn't, but I thought. I thought it was. I mean, of course it wouldn't be, but I thought he had rearranged the kitchen again, and so it was lost. I mean, I couldn't find it."

After trying to make any sense of what Desmond just said, but failing, Shaun asked Desmond to kindly _elaborate_, so Desmond took a deep breath and tried again. "I don't know what I was looking for. I know I came in here for food, but I got here and all I could think about was how I needed to find something for him, but nothing was where it should have been, but he was always moving things around, trying to make more efficient systems for _everything_ so I thought if I looked enough I'd just find it. And then you came in and when I first saw you I wondered when he had cut his hair and then you said something and. . ." His voice trailed off into confused silence.

Shaun was starting to feel sick, the tendrils stretching into his guts and tickling the walls of his stomach, hooking into claws. "Desmond," he asked, "why did you think this was _Leonardo's_ kitchen?"

"I don't _know_, Shaun. I just. I _don't know_." Desperation finally rasped out, raw emotion that Desmond never showed because he could turn that off like flipping a light switch, and Shaun needed to do something before the dread within him could spread any further, before it could consume him whole, so he curled his hand into a fist in the back of Desmond's shirt and pulled him close, facing him, ignoring his surprise when he lifted his other hand to Desmond's face, feeling the slight scrape of faint stubble against his palm, then rested his forehead against Desmond's for just a moment before tilting his head and softly pressing their lips together.

It was the first positively assertive move he had made toward Desmond since acknowledging his grudging affection for him, and it caught Desmond completely off guard; despite how obviously Shaun had warmed up to him, part of Desmond still worried that Shaun would never forgive him for being the one that had to live while others died, so many others he had never known and who had never known him but had _died_ for him, and he could never make that up to him. The kiss took him by surprise, but he was not unresponsive; rather, he leaned into the hand on his cheek and closed his eyes, raising his own hands to cup Shaun's face, and the memory-confusion slowly dissipated as he rooted himself in the _here_ and _now_ by repeating their kiss, each more needy than the last.

There was something both hesitant and delighted in Desmond's eyes when they finally pulled apart, something that caused the hooks in Shaun's stomach to relax and withdraw a little, or maybe it was the way the two of them seemed to fit together, but his insides no longer threatened to become his outsides and so he took that as a small victory. It was incredible how the slightest of gestures could ameliorate gnawing anxiety, could clear the troubled look from Desmond's face and allow Shaun to think that maybe Desmond would be all right, and that _they_ would be all right.

When Shaun didn't pull away from Desmond, blushing and brushing off what just happened with his signature insults and excuses, fixing his glasses defensively (as Desmond imagined he would), Desmond couldn't help but grin.

"Took you long enough," he said, winking, stepping back a little but not letting go, sliding his hands down Shaun's arms, delighting in the feel of muscle hidden under the coarse fabric of a slightly-oversized, off-white cardigan sweater that reminded Desmond of something a grandfather would wear while sitting in front of a fire, smoking a pipe and reading some hefty tome of classic literature, except it was _Shaun,_ and Shaun didn't pull away when Desmond laced their fingers together, and Desmond felt like pumping his fist into the air as _finally_ he got what he wanted.

Now, Shaun huffed and rolled his eyes, inwardly just as elated but outwardly maintaining the façade of disinterest despite the fact that he just kissed Desmond after having avoided it as much as possible and now they were _holding hands_ and he couldn't remember the last time he felt so juvenile, but _god_ he had wanted something like this for too long, so he was willing to overlook the fact that he was_thirty_ but acting like he was _seventeen._

He couldn't help the small frown, however, as he recalled the circumstances that brought this about, a frown that Desmond noticed and seemed to understand, as he had the decency to bite his lip in apparent worry, the light in his eyes dimming somewhat, even as Shaun gave his hands a reassuring squeeze.

"Come on," Shaun said. "I'm not feeling particularly hungry anymore," Desmond winced slightly, "and we still have a story to read. It's getting quite late, and I'd really rather not fall asleep in the middle of this one." He extricated a hand from Desmond's grasp and pulled him out of the kitchen, leading him back to the comfort of the couch they had abandoned, to sink back into the world of Victorian England, full of carriages and gas lights and a man entirely too clever for his own good.

They situated themselves with Desmond leaning, deliberately and without pretence, into Shaun this time. Desmond scratched his jaw idly, nails scraping against the hint of scruff as Shaun dragged his finger along the page of the book, finding where he had left off, then said, "Man, just think what this guy would have been like if he had been an Assassin. I guess probably something like you."

Shaun grunted in response, only half-listening, missing the flattery entirely. Then he paused, something in what he thought Desmond said suggesting he may have missed a rather _crucial_ piece of information regarding Sherlock Holmes. "Just a minute. You do realize, Desmond, that Sherlock Holmes is _fictional_, don't you?" Desmond's silence was very discouraging, and Shaun sighed wearily, removing his glasses to rub his eyes. "Desmond. . ."

"Yeah, sure, of course. I knew that," he said hastily. He paused, and then said, smirking, "You'd be too jealous if he were real."

"Jealous? Why on earth would I be jealous?"

"Well, because the men in my line seem to really, ah, _like_, brilliant guys."

"Even if he were real, not even _I_ think you're enough of an imbecile to pine away after a dead man."

"I dunno, I might get jealous of Watson, spending all that time with Holmes, always together, wishing I could be him. Hell, I might be jealous already. Holmes is really smart. Bet he'd be handsome, too." Desmond made sure he sounded thoughtful, like he was _actually_ considering the viability of that relationship, and then sighed wistfully.

Jaw clenched, Shaun fought the unexpected surge of emotion, telling himself it _wasn't_ jealousy, that Desmond was an idiot, that Desmond was making fun of him, and he would not rise to the occasion. He would _not_.

Silence only served to spur Desmond on to greater efforts, deciding to see how far he could take this train of thought. "I wonder what it'd be like to kiss him." The arm wrapped around his chest tensed briefly, fingers twitching, only the faintest hint of motion but enough to encourage Desmond to continue, "Watson says Holmes is pretty in control of himself normally, so I bet he really lets loose, all repressed _passion_ and _desire_, no mercy at all. Maybe he'd push me against the wall. . ." His voice trailed off and he hummed appreciatively at that thought, and the silence and stillness of Shaun's body seemed suddenly dangerous.

Shaun had given up telling himself he was entirely unaffected, that battle lost the moment Desmond mentioned kissing another person, deciding that, fictional character or no, Desmond had no business fantasizing about another man when he'd just bloody well as good as claimed him a few minutes ago.

Those were not stolen kisses, meant to be forgotten and hidden away; silent, shameful things that led to averted eyes and awkward silences – they had experienced quite enough of that as it was. Shaun had as good as placed his heart on his sleeve for Desmond in that moment, exposing himself as a charlatan with his bluster and rudeness hiding those _other_ feelings, and any uncertainty in the reciprocity of those feelings was entirely unacceptable.

Sensing the mood was about to shift into an altogether unpleasant realm of sarcasm and possibly physical violence, and having _no_ desire to explore that territory again, Desmond quickly clasped his hands together theatrically, and said in a breathy voice, "Oh, _Sherlock_."

"I hate you. Why did I ever think it would be a good idea to kiss you? Never again." Shaun made a show of pushing Desmond away, and Desmond just laughed and fought against his admittedly half-hearted efforts until Shaun just gave up, grudgingly.

"Naw, you don't mean that. You like me, admit it." Desmond grinned cheekily, and Shaun considered the strange shifts they went through, how situations could go from dire to playful in just a handful of minutes, even as he rolled his eyes at Desmond and turned his face away from that cheerfulness.

"If I _did_, I certainly wouldn't admit it to _you_," Shaun grumped.

"Yeah, yeah, whatever you say, old man. Come on, story time, right?"

"Fine, but keep your bizarre sexual fantasies to yourself."

"I only fantasize about you, Shaun."

Shaun barely managed to contain the blush that threatened to spread across his face. "Good."


	20. Chapter 20

_A/N: Rather glad I warned you lot about the possible delay, now. Sorry about that. _

_I am sorry if this chapter is disjointed; I wrote a good bit of it in the wee hours of the morning and while I went over it again, it still feels rather choppy. _

_Next chapter is the last chapter! Just have to write it. See you lot when it's done._

_Cheers._

* * *

Following that incident in the kitchen, Shaun expressly forbid Desmond from consuming any alcohol whatsoever, convinced that any lowering of his inhibitions would also lower his resistance to the bleeding effect, and though Desmond tried to tell him that they hadn't even been drinking when it happened and it probably wouldn't make a difference either way, Shaun refused to let him take any chances, though he did say, _Fine, Desmond, if you want to run the risk of suddenly thinking we're all Templars and wreak bloody havoc as a consequence it'll be on your head,_which was as good as telling Desmond he _had better fucking not touch a drop of alcohol._

Rather than continue to argue about it, Desmond relented. It wasn't worth the effort, and it wasn't as though the beer was good enough to be upset about anyway. Lucy would be glad to know it could be taken off their grocery lists, as she'd rolled her eyes and marked it off as an unnecessary expense but since they had so little by way of entertainment to keep their spirits up she'd allowed them their indulgence.

But now, taking a "walk" around the warehouse ("walk" being a rather loose definition, considering the amount of climbing and impromptu racing involved), Desmond's argument gained a bit of credibility as his foot slipped mid-chase, trying to catch up with Shaun who had said _something_, possibly insulting, that Desmond didn't really remember because honestly, it wasn't important; he just wanted to get Shaun up against those crates and make him uncomfortable and one excuse was good as any other, but then something _clicked_ in his head, an older memory falling into place and Desmond couldn't even fight it before it took control.

Shaun didn't notice his slip, and Desmond continued to pursue Shaun when he regained his footing, even though at this point Desmond wanted to stop, wanted to tell Shaun he wasn't himself anymore, wanted to just sit down, lay down, seclude himself until this went away.

He could _see_ everything happening, could feel his own anxiety when he realized he wasn't in control, but all that was secondary to the increasing sense of _other_, the other that still wanted to hunt Shaun down and pin him to the wall, press up against him and hiss into his ear exactly all the things he wanted to do to him.

Soon, Desmond wasn't sure where he ended and Altair began, only that his target was merely a few paces ahead of him and something was _off_ about him, something so crucial that it bothered him he couldn't pinpoint the discrepancy, but he disregarded it in favor of the feeling of victory when he caught up to the laughing man in front of him, grabbing his arm and pulling him close.

Desmond backed Shaun up against the crate, ignoring the way Shaun pushed at him half-heartedly, opting instead to brush protests aside with harsh kisses until Shaun gave up and reciprocated with as much force and fervor as he got, earning him a low laugh.

Shaun didn't realize anything was wrong until Desmond began murmuring in his ear, alternating his words with kisses and nipping at his earlobe, and he shoved Desmond away in earnest this time, the warmth he felt turning cold in his stomach as Desmond grabbed at his arms, then let go as if burned, eyes wide with suspicion bordering on an almost accusatory horror.

Desmond felt sick, felt himself gesturing wildly, heard himself asking furiously if this was some kind of sick joke, demanding Shaun tell him just what in the hell was going on. He couldn't _do_ what he wanted, couldn't _say _what he wanted, could only let someone else's words spill from his lips, harsh and furious, masking the fear that was both his and Altair's, while Shaun just shook his head and tried to communicate but Desmond couldn't tear his eyes from the place where he _knew_ an arm _shouldn't_ have been, but it _was_ there, gesturing at him.

And Shaun was talking, and Desmond understood it, knew _Altair_ could understand it but it wouldn't register, sounded _wrong_, out of place in the way that everything in the _world_ seemed out of place. All he could do was continue to _stare_ as Altair backed away slightly, grinding out words in Arabic behind gritted teeth, that _guilt_ churning in his stomach.

Nothing Shaun could do, or say, changed the look Desmond was giving him, a mixture of anger, fear, disbelief, and sickened guilt that he _knew_ wasn't Desmond's, and _god_, the night had started out _so well_; while sometimes their attempts to keep occupied failed, somehow this night had been so _promising_.

They pretended Desmond _wasn't_ slowly losing his fucking mind, and so spent quite a bit of time ignoring how he spaced out more and more frequently, how he had to use his eagle vision to make sure whoever he thought Shaun, Lucy, and Rebecca were _this_ time could be considered allies, and he didn't _know_ what Desmond was seeing now, but he had a pretty good idea, and he wished snapping his fingers in front of Desmond's face would _fix_ this, but he knew it wouldn't (because he'd _tried_ it before, with disappointing results), and he knew nothing he did would make this fucking _hallucination_ end quicker; his only option was to wait it out and hope to _god_ Desmond kept quiet.

"Shaun? Desmond?" Lucy's voice echoed in the warehouse, and Shaun cursed, grateful they were hidden from view, gesturing at Desmond to _shut up_ for just a fucking minute. "Are you guys out here?"

Shaun cleared his throat, then called out a response, letting his concern for Desmond turn into irritation. "Where _else_ would we be, exactly? There aren't many places in this bloody building with any amount of privacy, and I assume you checked elsewhere before deciding to interrupt."

He imagined he could hear her sigh with annoyance. "If you wanted _privacy_, you could always _use your bedroom_."

"I'll take that under _consideration_," Shaun said, glaring at Desmond when he opened his mouth to say _something_; he still had that wild, confused look about him that Shaun knew would get them into trouble. "Now, why don't you go back to canoodling with Rebecca and let us be?"

"Still an asshole. Goodnight, Shaun, Desmond." Shaun almost sighed with relief when he heard her walk away, but the urge to do so was cut short when Desmond began muttering again.

"Desmond, lo- mate, I _can't speak Arabic_. Fucking speak _English_." Shaun rubbed his eyes, at a loss.

Desmond furrowed his brow, and reached out for Shaun's arm, flinching when Shaun jerked away from his touch. Shaun groaned when Desmond spoke again, still in Arabic, only this time instead of _anger_, his voice was heavy with sorrow, and Shaun's mouth pulled into a frown, uncertain how to deal with the guilt Desmond clearly felt, only knowing it was probably a bad idea to stay in the warehouse any longer.

Pushing his misgivings aside, Shaun said, "Follow me. And don't say a fucking word." He beckoned with his hand as he spoke, and Desmond seemed to gather from his tone to hold his tongue, because the steady stream of words slowed to a halt, and he nodded.

The short trip to Shaun's room was silent, and after Shaun shut the door, Desmond merely _looked_ at him, resigned and confused, watching as he sat down on the edge of his bed, removedhis glasses, and leaned forward with a weary sigh, face in his hands.

"What am I going to do with you, Desmond? Blimey."

Weight on the mattress next to him caused Shaun to lower his hands and look over at Desmond, whose posture mirrored his own, hunched over and hands clasped between his knees.

Desmond shook his head, trying to dislodge Altair's hold on him, fighting the way Altair wanted to continue to alternately express his regret and demand answers, in order to _properly_ apologize to Shaun, who probably hadn't expected any of this when he agreed to entertain Desmond's affection, and when he spoke, he wasn't sure whether he'd managed to finally articulate his own feelings, or more of Altair's, though at this point they were admittedly similar.

From the sound of Shaun's half-laugh, Desmond assumed he'd failed again. "At least it was English this time," Shaun said, lying back on his bed, and Desmond felt a little bit of hope. "I'd appreciate the apology and the . . . endearment more if I thought they were for me. Try again when you _don't_ think I'm Malik, love."

Desmond blinked.

He felt Altair withdraw some more, and while his voice was accented when he spoke again, he was certain it was _himself_. "Not Malik. _You_. Shaun."

Squinting at Desmond, Shaun lifted his head a bit from the mattress a moment, then dropped back again. "Well, then, in that case." His eyes roved back and forth, scanning the ceiling. "Me too."

"You too . . . what?" Feeling more like himself, Desmond attempted a smirk that ended up more as a weak smile.

"Don't be so thick, you pillock." Shaun tried to ignore the way the mattress shifted under Desmond's weight as he moved closer, settling down beside him.

"You seem embarrassed, Shaun."

"Well, just _look_ at you, of course I'm embarrassed." Shaun rolled his eyes. "I'm going steady with a lunatic. Can't exactly take you home to my mum, can I?"

True though that may have been, Desmond didn't want to think about what just happened; he wanted to get back to what he was doing with Shaun before they were so rudely interrupted by the bleeding effect, so he rolled over on top of Shaun abruptly, snickering at the way air rushed out of Shaun's lungs before ducking down for a kiss.

"Desmond, I'm _really_ not in the mood for this sort of business anymore. You losing your mind is a _bit_ of a mood killer."

Desmond merely hummed in response, and though Shaun turned his face away, Desmond persisted, letting his hands wander while leaving soft kisses along Shaun's jaw until he relaxed, serving to grant as much permission as Desmond was likely to get.

Later, Shaun would come down from the heady rush with the knowledge that intimacy wouldn't fix Desmond, would not solve any of their problems, and though it felt _fantastic_, being with Desmond like this, it was nevertheless not as simple and straightforward as all that _being in love_ nonsense would have him believe; for the time being, however, he let go of all that and actually _enjoyed_ himself.

When all that responsibility and _sense_ came back, however, it managed to dampen the elusive contentment he felt, and though Desmond looked like he was threatening to drift off to sleep, Shaun propped himself up, looming over Desmond until he blinked the drowsiness away and furrowed his brows.

"The hell?"

"I have to tell Lucy. No, wait, strike that, _you_ have to tell Lucy."

"She probably already thinks we were sleeping together a long time ago." Desmond brought a hand to his face and yawned.

Shaun glared at him. "You're being obtuse again. You know what I mean."

"Shaun . . ."

"No, Desmond. Believe me, I'm chuffed to _bits_ that we're both thoroughly shagged right now, but this isn't going to go away, and Lucy might be able to help."

"_Might._ Shaun," Desmond sighed, and looked away. "Fine, you're right. I'll talk to her tomorrow. She's going to be so pissed at me."

"Not just you, mate." Shaun rolled over onto his back and found Desmond's hand with his own. "I certainly share a bit of the responsibility here."

"You don't have to—I mean, I wouldn't _mind_ if you backed me up, but I don't want you getting into trouble."

"Desmond, just being with you is an entire _realm_ of trouble as it is. Lucy will deal with it."

"I—thanks. I don't even know what I'll say to her. 'Sorry, Lucy, I've been keeping this a secret for a couple of months but sometimes I think I'm my ancestors. Oh, and I know Italian and Arabic. No, no, didn't learn from Shaun. Other way around. Yep. That's right. Shaun _is_ a lying asshole. Please don't kill us.' That sound good?"

"Perhaps a bit more subtlety than that would be better. Prick."

"Whatever. I'll figure out in the morning. For now . . ." Desmond's voice lowered, and he shifted onto his side, letting his free hand run over Shaun's skin.

"Blimey, Desmond, I thought you were tired."

"What? _You've_ had some in the past year. I haven't." He moved, shifting over on top of Shaun, and leaned down for a kiss.

"I didn't say I minded," Shaun said after Desmond pulled away, then tugged him back down again as he laughed, sounding entirely too pleased with himself.

Morning was still a few hours away; no reason to not spend the time well.


	21. Chapter 21

Though Desmond had every intention of pulling Lucy aside in the morning, after he and Shaun staggered blearily from his room with only the barest handful of hours of sleep under their belts (though neither of them regretted losing that sleep _in the slightest_), she stopped him as soon as he stepped into the room, crackling with nervous energy.

"No time, Desmond," she said, speaking over his mumbled _good morning_. "The Templars are moving in and _fast_, so we need to get to work _now_, and get as much done as possible before they get here."

Concern won out over drowsiness. Desmond scrubbed his face with his palms in an attempt to force himself into alertness and asked, "Fast? How fast?"

"They'll probably find us by tomorrow, if not sooner. It's going to be a full day in the Animus, I think."

As soon as Lucy mentioned the Templars, Shaun left Desmond's side to confirm on his computer; sure enough, he had a flurry of messages coming in from the local cells, each of them detailing positions and ETAs, and each just a little more harried the last.

"Lucy's right," Shaun said, and sighed. "It's only a matter of time, now."

Desmond chewed on the inside of his mouth while he thought for a moment. If it was as dire as all that, there probably wouldn't be time now to get into what would no doubt be a lengthy, heated discussion on the subject of his somewhat dubious mental stability. He remembered Lucy's impatience in getting him out of Abstergo and cringed a little, then nodded.

"All right. Plug me in. Let's get this show going."

* * *

Desmond felt Ezio's determination on the trip to Rome, felt he hum of energy that coursed through him, the anticipation of long-awaited revenge finally upon him as he slipped past guards and made his way to where he knew Borgia would be, unsuspecting.

He also felt Ezio's shock and anger at being thwarted, the frustration throughout the fight that ensued, and the pain that came with the blade in his side, a sudden blank agony that jerked him out of synchronicity for a moment, gasping from it before being thrown back into Ezio's body.

* * *

As Desmond shuddered in the Animus, Shaun swore and stopped packing Desmond's clothes for a moment, eyes narrowing out of worry. "Christ, Lucy, can't we get him out of there? The Templars are _nearly here_ and it looks like Ezio is _dying_." He placed Desmond's copy of _Sherlock Holmes_ carefully on top, then closed up the box forcefully, muttering, "I can't imagine that being _good_ for Desmond."

"The Animus is locked into the memory. And even if we _could_ get him out, I think it'd be a very bad time for it."

"I'm with Lucy," Rebecca said, though she looked a little worried. _You would,_ Shaun thought snidely. "This is kind of what he's been working toward his whole life, you know? And look, he's getting up, he's fine."

"_Fine_ might be just a _bit_ of an exaggeration. No one is _fine_ after being _stabbed_."

"_Shaun._" Though he rolled his eyes at the tone in Lucy's voice, he sighed and kept quiet, watching Desmond with increasing anxiety as he shoved as much as he could into their few boxes.

Really, there was nothing he didn't want to take with them; even _one_ of his books left behind would be too many. Unfortunately, he would have to leave behind quite a bit more than just _one_ text, and Shaun didn't want to think about the Templars getting their hands on them, learning what they'd been up to.

Though he tried to keep an eye on Desmond, part of him not entirely trusting Lucy and Rebecca to get him out if things got even worse, he couldn't afford the distraction. There was still work to be done.

* * *

A remote part of himself that remained _Desmond_ observed, rather than experienced, as Ezio showed unexpected mercy, but he shared the emptiness Ezio felt, as he continued to bleed into Desmond's mind.

He also shared Ezio's blank shock and confusion when, inside the vault, Minerva spoke to _him_, told _him_ that he was their only fucking hope, and he felt outrage, through Ezio and on Ezio's behalf for being _used_, for being _dismissed_, and for everything that continued to go so depressingly _wrong_ for him.

He didn't even have _time_ to process what just happened, what Ezio just saw, what he'd just _heard_ before being pulled back into the present amidst a flurry of activity; they avoided his eyes, even as Lucy tossed him a bracer that he donned without thinking, only allowing himself a moment to wonder _where it came from_ and _how they got it_.

"They're here? _Now?_"

"To be honest, I'm surprised it took them as long as it did," Shaun said, hauling a box of files and equipment past where Desmond stood, still attempting to shake the last vestiges of memories from his head, even as he briefly examined the bracer Lucy had thrown him, which he had mechanically slipped over his arm before feeling slight discomfort at just how _comfortable_ and _natural_ it felt, and suddenly it felt more strange to think of it _not_ being there. Automatically, he triggered the mechanism and caught Shaun's eye, the pained expression there reflecting his own wariness.

Lucy barked out orders and abruptly left, but Desmond didn't quite catch everything she said through the fog that lingered, part of him still reeling from that fucking _atom bomb_ that lady, Minerva, dropped on him (and how the _fuck_ that was _even possible_, he desperately wanted to know).

He didn't realize he was meant to go with Lucy until Shaun looked up from dismantling the Animus with Rebecca and snapped, "What are you doing, Desmond? _Go help her_," his voice taut with anxiety, and Desmond wanted to _stay_ because even though he knew Shaun could more than take care of himself he didn't want to abandon him, but when Shaun glared hard at him he turned and ran after Lucy.

And then they confronted Vidic.

* * *

Shaun and Rebecca were nearly finished dismantling the Animus when the first sounds of combat filtered up from the warehouse, and they shared a nervous glance before stowing the last of the parts away.

While they had to be cautious as they stole their way down to the van, Shaun couldn't help but stop and watch a moment, partially hidden by crates, when he heard Desmond grunt after taking a hit. Desmond moved with a precision that Shaun didn't trust, and he narrowed his eyes, trying to discern which ancestor had him _this_ time; he ignored Rebecca's insistent glare and he knew he'd catch hell for it later but right then he could not _possibly_ have cared less. But then Desmond looked up from a swift execution and Shaun _knew_ it was him, could see it in his eyes, and the apprehension that always gripped him when Desmond faded slowly left him, and he finally followed Rebecca to the van.

Rebecca attempted to admonish him, hissing at him under her breath, but he raised his hand to ward off her muttered, angry tirade and stowed his boxes away. It took them another two trips to finish loading up the van, and by that time Desmond and Lucy had made bloody work of the Templars, bodies littering the floor. They heard Desmond shout, and when they caught up he had his arms spread wide in challenge, facing Vidic, evoking the confident air more characteristic of Ezio, but which Desmond seemed to wear now with ease.

They hung back with Lucy a bit, since Desmond appeared to have the situation more or less under control (as much as the situation _could_ be under control, anyway), and after a moment, Shaun said, "Fucking git backed through the wall," which earned him a strange look from Lucy. "What? I'm just saying. Templars must be rubbish drivers."

"Shaun, honestly. You pick the strangest times to have a sense of humor," she said, rolling her eyes.

He huffed irritably, then gestured at the retreating truck. "Oh, look, he's leaving. Wouldn't this be a grand time to carry a _gun_."

Lucy just ignored him, stepping forward to try to soothe the evident frustration Desmond felt at losing his quarry as they made their way to the vehicle.

* * *

In the van, as they drove down some rocky back road, he felt Shaun surreptitiously take his hand while they explained in minute detail every little thing that could possibly go wrong that he was supposed to prevent, _somehow_, by finding these _temples_, or whatever Minerva had said. And he had _no clue_ what he could even _possibly_ do to prevent geological catastrophes or the end of the world, and he wasn't sure _how_ continuing to follow Ezio in the Animus would be _any_ kind of useful, but he sighed and agreed.

Desmond didn't trust the _ease_ with which he had _executed_ each person who stood between him and Vidic, and the quiet, churning _bloodlust_ that coursed through his veins was unsettling at best. He'd never even killed anyone before then, but it was almost frightening how he made such short work of the Templars with hardly a second thought, as though he'd been doing it for _years_.

It felt _natural_, which was _fucked up_, and though he didn't _feel_ like he was channeling Ezio or Altair, he couldn't be sure. For all he knew, the bleeding effect was working in far more insidious ways than any of them had expected and when this was all over he'd be some strange, inhuman mix of people entirely unlike himself, and he wouldn't even notice the difference because it would feel _right_.

Shaun squeezed his hand, rubbing his thumb reassuringly against his skin, and Desmond was grateful for the contact and the implied support, and he let Rebecca stick that damned monitor in his arm once more, feeling perhaps a little apprehensive as he slowly went under again, his vision going dark. He'd do what he had to, though, even if it meant losing his mind, losing everything he knew in order to defeat the Templars.

It wasn't like he had much of a choice, anyway.

* * *

_A/N: End._

_Thanks for sticking with me, guys. I'm looking forward to being able to focus on other things now without this hanging over me. Maybe there will be more from this story if future games provide the material, but that's part of the nebulous future that I can in no way predict (and I kind of doubt it anyway but. Like I said. Nebulous)._

_I probably left some things unanswered (example: what Desmond said in Arabic to Shaun in Ch. 10), and that's because either I couldn't find a way to work it in without it being awkward/heavy-handed, I couldn't think of what to do with it at all, or I forgot about it entirely. So. Uh. Sorry if that bothers you. I tried to be conscious of continuity within the story, but to err is human, I suppose._

_(He either said, "You're really fucking hot," "You're a fucking smartass," "Obviously, I can speak Arabic, smartass/asshole/dickhead/wtfever," or your choice of stupid things he could say to Shaun. Fill-in-the-blank. I prefer things with lots of cusses, myself. Maybe he just let out a string of clever curses, because that's what you do when you learn a new language. You learn to swear.)_


End file.
